I suspect he’s hungry, you know. Well, fucking starving, actually. Ravenous, in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with Ramadan.
I don’t know the man personally; I’d have no inclination to do so even if I was given the chance, albeit he does seem like an interesting individual. I’ve seen too many come and go over the years to become invested in him to any greater extent than his ability to carve his name into the floors, walls, doors, ceilings, roof, the fucking fixtures and fittings of this club alongside names like “Dalglish”, “Souness”, “Rush”. “Mo woz ere” scrawled everywhere, seared into the front lawn, carved into the hedges, forever. That’s all I want.
Xabi Alonso was the worst: broke my fucking heart when he left, broke
me to such an extent that I would shed few tears, figurative or otherwise, when the likes of Torres, Mascherano, Suárez, Sterling and Coutinho packed their bags and followed him (maybe a couple for Pepe Reina). But we always had Istanbul, didn’t we Xabi? We’ll always have that much.
Mo Salah will leave one day too, whether for greener pastures or because his work here is done. When that day comes, I would dearly love to similarly say “we’ll always have Madrid, Mo”. Much more than just Madrid by then, hopefully, but this is the opportunity immediately at hand. There will
always be Madrid if Liverpool win on the 1st. Always and forever. Immortality beckons: do you doubt that he’s the type to seize it with both hands?
This is what I know: he’s scored 70 goals in 103 games for this club. But that’s just your
hors d’oeuvre.
A year ago, he skipped into Kiev with PFA awards, FWA awards, Golden Boots, Golden Sambas and 44 goals stuffed into his back pocket. About the only thing he didn’t have on him was a care in the world, that is until he was removed by force from the biggest game of his life. And as he walked down the tunnel in tears, or perhaps later that night when the noise around him subsided and left him alone with his thoughts, all of those awards and achievements, if only in the moment, must have suddenly felt illusory, as though they had been robbed from him along with his chance to illuminate club football’s biggest stage.
What should have been the next major milestone in his career, his first World Cup, was subsequently tainted by that injury, as well as his national FA leading him unknowingly into a photo op with a man facilitating, amongst other things, a “purge” of LGBT people in Chechnya. That debacle was supposedly enough for him to have considered his international future, following a competition that should have been a highlight of his career.
After that, he returned to England and excelled once again amidst a cacophony of voices alternately calling him a “one-season wonder”, “selfish and greedy”, a cheat and a diver, topped off by a squad of fellow professionals singing about that injury suffered in Kiev and inserting one of their own in the role of Sergio Ramos, as if taking a perverse thrill in what must have been one of the most miserable nights of his professional career. But yeah, “if someone was offended, I’m sorry, I apologise, but it was never our intention.”
(Hey, Pep?
)
He also went through his first (thoroughly publicised) lean patch this season: from his double at home to Crystal Palace on the 19th of January to the crucial counter-attack that put Liverpool’s noses in front at Southampton on the 5th of April, Mo Salah scored 1 goal in 11 games in all competitions, across two and a half months. He played all but 11 minutes of those games, too.
But he came through that, rebounding with 6 in 9 to finish the season and saving the day against Barcelona with his t-shirt (not really, but it could become very iconic very soon). That redemption began with Toby Alderweireld and Hugo Lloris at Anfield on the last day of March. Not only does he come into this final in form, he’s scored 3 goals in 4 games against Tottenham since his arrival at the club, including arguably the finest of his Liverpool career to date at Anfield last season where he seemed to leave their entire defence on their arses. And his recent concussion against Newcastle hopefully means that we’ve gotten that particular injury out of our collective system
before the game this time.
Did I mention that he loves this competition? (“I will be honest with you, the most prestigious competition for me is the Champions League.”)
Did I mention that he missed the opportunity to contribute anything beyond a fashion choice to what will go down in history as one of the most famous European Cup comebacks of all time a couple of weeks back?
I say again: I don’t know the man personally. But if he isn’t looking to stamp his name all over this final and ram it down the collective throats of his enemies, if he isn’t imagining all the ways he can wreak his vengeance and claim his redemption in Madrid for so many injuries, both physical and mental, if he isn’t pulsating with excitement at this opportunity to make history on the biggest stage of them all, then he’s a different player than the one I’ve been watching for the past two years, namely an ambitious, fearless warrior. An Egyptian king, if you will.
Honestly; my advice to Tottenham would be to arrive in Madrid early, look up Señor Ramos’ dōjō, and take some judo lessons because Mo is coming for them in the very realest sense.
