I love Steven Gerrard. I’ve vicariously grown up with the man and his name is synonymous with Liverpool Football Club for me. But I wouldn’t wish him back at Liverpool as a player again. A coach? Yes, please.
My opinion is not driven by tactical analysis nor a fiery debate as to whether or not he could still kick it in the Premier League (hint: he could.) It’s rooted in sentiment. I’d prefer his last games as the Liverpool no. 8 stay in the past, despite his final two being an absolutely opprobrious way to send out one of the club’s best ever players.
I, like most fans, just can’t go through it all again.
Gerrard’s sendoff was extravagant and deserving (except for the aforementioned on field results that I’ll never truly accept.) Everyone had something great to say about the man: ex-teammates, ex-managers, players he played against, current teammates, current managers and players who he never played with but always wished they did.
I remember the timeline more vividly than I should, if I’m being honest.
In late December/early January when the whispers that he might not be back next season began gaining traction, I didn’t believe the rumors, I couldn’t believe the rumors. There was no conceivable thought process in my mind in which the end result would be Gerrard wearing another kit.
How was my mental health? Was I experiencing neurosis? How far away from reality had my brain distanced itself?
I began bargaining with my brain. Why are you doing this, brain? Was it because I consumed too much alcohol? I’ll cut back if it’s hurting you, I promise. Just bring me back to reality, a Steven Gerrard retiring at Liverpool reality.
As my inner conscious and brain had this useless discussion, Gerrard himself confirmed my worst fears. He’d be headed for the United States and Major League Soccer once his contract expired at the end of the season.
I always thought he’d retire as a true one club man, the last of a dying breed as greed and commercialism take over the game. Liverpool was his city, it still is his city.
I was genuinely upset. Which is weird and downright strange when you break it down to simple, nonspecific terms.
A man who got paid a fortune to play a game more than 3,000 miles away from me decided he was one step closer to retirement before he turned 40, easily two decades before I’ll have the luxury of retiring, and it absolutely ruined me.
Sport sounds crazy when broken down to real life terms, doesn’t it? But I don’t care. I wasn’t ashamed how hard it hit me, I knew I wasn’t the only one.
It was an evening during my University winter break, I hadn’t anything to do when the news broke. I don’t know if that made things better or worse. On one hand, I didn’t have anything to distract myself with. On the other, I didn’t have the impossible task of explaining why I was so sad, taken aback and quiet to those who would never get it.
Liverpool wasn’t nearly as good to Steven Gerrard as Steven Gerrard was to Liverpool.
I was sitting on a couch in my living room. Of course this news wasn’t enough to breech the American television waves. It didn’t matter. My eyes were glued to my phone, scrolling up and down Twitter. I was reading every news report I could, smiling at every old Gerrard picture Liverpool tweeps dug up from the depth of their phone. It was nostalgia.
I decided I wanted my own nostalgia, too.
So I sauntered off my couch, dragging my feet across the white tiled floor. I didn’t have socks on. I hate dragging my feet on rug, I don’t know why but it makes me cringe the same way that normal humans do when an extremely high pitched screech hits the airwaves. But when the terrain changed from tile to rug, I couldn’t be bothered to ramp up my effort levels to anything other than the absolute bear minimum to transport my body from the couch to my room where my laptop was. Not today, irrational hatred of dragging my feet on rugs, not today.
I managed to get myself up the stairs, drifting at 2015 Glen Johnson pace towards my room. I opened the door, flicked the lights on and in my immediate eyesight was an old Steven Gerrard poster hanging in my embarrassingly boyish room for someone who lies to myself about my level of maturity.
I continued my sullen pace to my closet, I see one of my Gerrard kits proudly dangling in the closet, certainly not collecting dust. I threw it on. I picked up my laptop and opened it. The wallpaper? A picture of Gerrard, Daniel Sturridge and Luis Suarez standing over a kickoff with the Kop waving flags in the background.
I fired up YouTube. I didn’t know what I’d search. I didn’t know where I’d start or where I was destined to finish*.
*Hopefully still on the subject at hand and not drift to the Tosh.0 depths of YouTube**.
**Also hopefully within a reasonable amount of time. Come on, figure it out you little nerd.
I typed his name in the search box and the first video I embarked upon was his top 10 goals ever. That objective list included that one against Olympiakos, that one against AC Milan and that one against West Ham.
Mr. Cup Final. I got the chills.
Next video up: full highlights from the 2005 Champions League Final, then the 2006 FA Cup Final.
Those great times, so many great times. The worst part? There should’ve been so many more great times but Liverpool wasn’t nearly as good to Steven Gerrard as Steven Gerrard was to Liverpool.
There are conflicting reports as to whether or not Liverpool are considering having club legend Steven Gerrard return to his boyhood club in a playing role, but it is understood that the Los Angeles Galaxy will not let their new boy leave on loan. The Galaxy would demand a transfer fee and Gerrard would be brought in on a permanent basis.
Jurgen Klopp, please bring the legend back to train and be a coach. Let him play out the rest of his American dream, hopefully lift a trophy over there, something Theirry Henry never got to do, and happily return to Merseyside, back to Melwood to resume his coaching duties. Full time coaching duties.
My elegy of mourning is unique to me but I’m far from the only one. I’m just one of an innumerable amount of children, teenagers, young adults and proper adults. I’m far from the worst, too.
Collectively, we have gotten over the initial disbelief that he was leaving. We continually reminisced on the great times. We fumed on social media when the dark side of the internet took their shots at the legend. We savored the months ensuing the announcement. We got emotional at his Anfield send off, when Palace gave him a guard of honor. Then his lap of honor and the final time he’d walk back down the tunnel at Anfield as a player for Liverpool Football Club.
It’s done. Don’t ruin those moments. Bring him back as a coach, not a player.