Victory on Merseyside with a 2-0 triumph over the mighty Lillywhites of the North End! Indeed, as the pencil-pushers predicted so perfectly, the Prestoners picked a perhaps too potent party with which to ply their powers. The 'Puddlians pushed through on goals from the winging wonderboy Alberto Riera and the always promising, yet equally prodigal Fernando Torres. It's weeks like this that make it easy to run with the Reds, yet, as my dearest and closest friends on Merseyside know all too well, this is rarely the case.
As I write, Liverpool are currently top of the table, but, if the Premiership were a room full of film directors, they've got to be the Mel Brooks of the league: awkwardly do they stumble through the season, yet the results keep coming. The points are more often than not humorous (not to mention altogether ironic), but the only people laughing are completely detached from the fixtures. Really, though, I can't complain; at the top of the table, "it's good to be the King," eh?
Frankly, that which best describes my current state as a Liverpool fan has to be the image of a Dirk Kuyt smile. Disheveled, misshapen, and framed by one serious mullet, the face only a mother could love appears to have once been intentionally deformed, yet something in the eyes (and the mullet) indicates a happiness rarely attained. It's been as rough and scary as sex with Jamie Carragher but the suffering is part of being a Scouser; without the stress, it's no different than supporting Chelsea (which would be about as cool as a bath with my dad). It's been up and down and my “fanship” has been tested, but I'm happy and no worse for the wear.
And, so, onward do my beloved Red soldiers march, yet whimsical is their gait. As long as Xabi plays schoolyard ball, as long as Kuyt keeps smiling like Sloth from the Goonies, as long as Rafa continues growing that sweet goatee, they'll never look like true pros, which is the best thing about loving this team. By this, I mean that I could play for Liverpool. I mean, not because I'm good at footie (I'm not), but because I don't look like I should play the game. Bono could play for Liverpool; Danny Devito could play for Liverpool; Foghorn Leghorn, for Chrissake, could play. If Peter Crouch can take the field, then, by God, I'm going to continue the fantasy. What's more is that these backwards scalawags are staking their claim. Our squad full of mutts has taken the field each week over the past five months and played the hardest, fastest, and roughest, and right now this scarred-up outsider stands on top of the heap. He's a mix between Gladiator's Maximus mixed with George Costanza and he's currently sitting atop Europe's most competitive league. And I'll walk with that until I am no longer able. YNWA!
There's your mother-flippin' "season in review" post.
My weekend prediction: To make the game actually challenging for Torres, Rafa benches him for the first 45, threatens to cut him if he fails to post a hat trick, and sends him out for the last half in bowling shoes. Reds take all three points, 4-1 (Gerrard decides to take it easy on Stoke by refusing to score, but he accidently sneezes with the ball inside the center circle and hits it upper 90).
Being completely serious, JW signing off.
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