I'm going to get this out of the way: I love Steven Gerrard. And I know how that sounds, but, sure, think what you want. I'm not a homosexual; not that there's anything wrong with that- they're really great people, I'm sure. I'm just not, but I love Steven Gerrard in a manner that actually transcends homosexuality. I love him in a way that makes me want to whisker-rub the guy or maybe even compare our individual crops of chest/back hair. Manly shit.
The character of Stevie is absolutely magnanimous. Imagine Gerrard in a more literary sense; he is Gallahad. Silently he prowls, constantly vigilant, ever lurking for his opportunity to do the noble, yet difficult, tasks for those who are less able than himself (which is pretty much friggin' everybody). The perfect leader Steven is, and he seldom fails to deliver. If you doubt this, I refer you to 06 FA Cup final. Extraordinarily quiet, though, is Gerrard's style; he stays out of the tabloids as much as possible, rarely does he jaw with the opponents, and his postmatch comments are usually about as controversial as the missionary position. Point being, Stevie G is the perfect player, and he is universally liked for his good sported nature.
In view of all this, I was astounded to see the Stevester in the news for, ALLEGEDLY, beating up a night club DJ. This is certainly not what I will call a Steveism. Ever the stoic, G-star is not the plucky buckaroo to be punching anyone, and certainly not off the pitch. Not that Stevie wouldn't; as Captain Augustus McCrae would say, sometimes there's just no "tolerating a surly bartender," but, with #8, to warrant violence, let's say you gotta be cruisin' for a bruisin', and you've gotta be cruisin' hard. Beating someone up in public and keeping a low profile simply are not two things often associated with one another, so the sitch certainly had to be a peculiar one.
I picture the incident like this: Stevie and his mates, along with that foxy wife of his (Stevette), are out for a drink after an emphatic devastation of Newcastle 5-1, when, suddenly, things turn sour. Imagine Phil Collins' "One More Night" is playing, and the vibe is good. The conversation is about some heavy stuff, but the laughs are coming easy. Let's just say they're talking about the problem of landmines in Vietnam and Paul McCartney is there. Steve's mates are liberal with the cracks on John Lennon to keep things light enough, and everyone is have a merry ole time. But the clouds are beginning to move in; the lights are turned low, the neon paints come out, and Moby abruptly comes out over the house speakers. Things are not well for such a jubilant gathering. Stevie, being The Steven Gerrard, puts on The Steven Gerrard Face, stands up from the table, saying, "Don't worry, lads, this one's mine."
Here it can only happen one way: Steve walks up to the DJ's booth, but the DJ can't really see who is approaching because he is wearing a gas mask for the ensuing techno rave. And Steven Gerrard takes no prisoners, punching that hipster bozo right in his vibe-ruining kisser, breaking his tooth and sending him to the hospital.
Now this all sounds like fiction, I know. I must confess, I took a few liberties with the actual events; the truth is, only Stevie, Stevette, and his mates know what actually happened there. That mongoloid gorilla of a DJ certainly doesn't remember, and the other people in the club ain't snitchin' on Steve-o. But the point is, Stevie hit a guy in the face over music. HIT a PERSON in the FACE over MUSIC. HIT FACE MUSIC. FACE. Hitting home? The most calm and cool demeanor in the game did this. Adding up? I know, not at all, I'm sure. But, just wait, I'll feed you, baby birds.
This is the best example of a Steveism I can think of. Steve calmly stood up, calmly strode to the DJ's booth, and calmly opened up a can of whup ass on McCrae's 2008 version of the "surly bartender." Steve stoicly took matters into his own hands. And, knowing Steve, he can only be accused of letting the punishment fit the crime. If he thought DJ Pablo was going to jive with a pleasant request, I can only expect the Reds' man-in-armband to do this. Hell, Stevie would have given the dude a swirly if it was the scratch for the itch, but that squeeze would have yielded no juice. And Steve wasn't walking away without at least one serving of Vitamin C for the day, so he pummeled that ass. And that's truth.
Punching a guy in the face rarely seems an appropriate response for much of anything; however, if you're an obstinate record tosser, the precedent has been set. Don't muck about with Phil Collins' fans, and perhaps you'll go through life without ever needing a gold tooth.
And, so, "rap, rap" goes the gavel on Merseyside; Stevie's innocent, and I'll take that before God Almighty himself (And I'm sure Mr. Fowler will oblige).
Fight the Powers, JW out.
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