It was 25 March 2000, Titi Camera scores against Newcastle in a 2-1 win to the Red Men. Young Le Jake is sat in the upper anny with his Uncle, and a passion is born. His Uncle has saved his soul. An 8 year old Le Jake has a Man Utd calculator because his dad, who knows nothing of football, heard they won some trophies. His Uncle, the brother of his father, knows different, and saves him.
9 year old Le Jake is now a Red, a proper Red too. first Liverpool kit is a retro 90s second hand goalkeeper kit bought from a car boot sale. He gets bought a copy of Championship Manager 00/01 and (because he doesn't have the internet) spends all his time on that, being a bedroom Gerard Houillier. When he's playing football, he's Fowler, always.
No, I'm Fowler! You can be Scholes or Cole
Fast forward, aged 13 and on holiday in some Spanishy island, best friends at school are the Liverpool fans, of course, and the news that, after the sacking of Gerard Houllier (who is, incidentally, the spit of my grandfather) and the hiring of a Spanish guy I'd not heard of (because I don't really watch football outside of Liverpool, I just can't garner any sort of enthusiasm) - Michael Owen decides to fuck off to Spain.
Fuck Spain, I'm fuming. I'm in Spain, we've replaced my grandad with some Spanish man, and now our striker is off to Spain too.
But of course how wrong I was. Me and my mate still watch every game together and it's a bobby dazzler of a season, Rafa Benitez is a magician in Europe, and every Tuesday night game at mine, Wednesday night game at his, tired for school the next day but it's bloody worth it. The season, and only day of the school calendar I remember is May 25th, 2005. 3-0 down at half time, sat with my mates in the living room, a manc
friend calling on the house phone to give it the big "I am". Mum telling me it will be OK, if the other team can score 3 in a half, Liverpool can too. Me telling my mum she doesn't know what she's talking about. Fast forward 90 minutes and we're all crying and hugging and jumping and I get bollocked the next day for wearing my Liverpool scarf to school.
Fast forward to 2007 and I'm sat in Paphos, at the Liverpool supporters bar. Christened "Young Robbie" by the patrons who think I look like God himself, and our new striker, Fernando Torres, skins the fuck out of Tal Ben Haim, I go crazy in the bar, jump up and knock over a table of drinks. Luckily they belong to a table of Chelsea fans, and the rest of the bar have got my back.
3 June 2010, I'm sat on a train from Darlington to Middlesbrough, or maybe from Middlesbrough to Darlington, feeling numb. They've only gone and fucking sacked him. Rafael Benitez, my hero, and he's gone. The fucking owners, who wouldn't sign any of the players Rafa wanted, who wouldn't give him the money he needed, and he's gone. Yeah ok so we had a bad season, but think of all the history. I feel sick.
9 January 2011 and I'm stood in Old Trafford, baying for Howard Webb's blood because he's just given a penalty for a fuck all challenge, a Berbatov dive, and potentially ruined the return of the man I had read so much about, but not been lucky enough to see in the flesh, King Kenny Dalglish. I'd sang his name and watches his goals, his grace and his dignity from videos past and now here he was, in the dugout, and I felt like I had been there in 79, 80, 82, 83, 84, 86, 88 and 90. But I wasn't even born.
16 May 2012 and I'm sat on the floor in my student accommodation, scanning for news of what the fucks just happened. We won a trophy this year, we were just unluckily eked out of the FA Cup, we hit the post and bar so many times, we tore Man Utd apart, yeah yeah it could have been a bit better but with a bit of luck on our side we'd have got that top four spot too. New owners, they came and gave the King some money to buy some players, and now they've shitcanned him? I'm fucking fuming.
4 October 2015. PM We've just played the Bitters and not won. Again. Yeah sure I celebrated Ings goal, but when Lukaku scored I didn't feel the bile, I didn't punch a wall or scream or shout like I used to. I just sighed. This it what it is now.
4 October 2015, Evening, the same Uncle who took me to watch Liverpool v Newcastle, who started it all off, text to say "Brendan has been sacked". Am I bothered? I don't even know.
The club has been passed around from businessman to businessman looking to make some money, it's seen mercenary after mercenary through the doors, looking to make some money, it's seen c*nt after c*nt through the turnstiles, looking to get a new instagram selfie profile picture. It's seen world class gentleman after world class gentleman given the boot because of a short term problem. And all I can do is sigh.
Is it still the Club I fell in love with aged 9 years and 22 days old? Is it broken, or am I?