EPL title race: Win it for Stevie G

EPL title race: Win it for Stevie G

LIVERPOOL 3

(Raheem Sterling 6, Martin Skrtel 26, Philippe Coutinho 78)

MAN CITY 2

(David Silva 57, Glen Johnson 62-og)

 

Steven Gerrard did a wonderful thing at the final whistle. He pulled back the curtain.

As tears sprang from his eyes, the Liverpool skipper stripped away the sticky layers of celebrity and wealth to bare flesh and blood.

He wasn't immortal after all. He had grown into something greater, worthier and more profound.

He was one of us.

He wanted to win the title for his beloved club. And in that revealing moment, the world wanted Liverpool to win the title for Stevie G.

His tears united us. Footballer and fan merged into one.

That wretched VIP barrier erected and strengthened since the birth of the Premier League instantly crumbled.

Gerrard's tears briefly bridged the chasm between devoted punter and detached professional.

His crying proved contagious among Reds supporters and touched a nerve among neutrals.

He became a mirror. He really was one of us. He was all of us.

He was a kid kicking a ball with his kakis on the void deck, sneakily ignoring the "no games" sign and hoping that kaypoh neighbours stayed away long enough for a winner to be scored.

He was a Sunday morning footballer at Bishan Park, dictating terms to his exhausted teammates in a group huddle, ordering a sustained effort for another four games, focusing on the suitably chastising fact that nothing had been won yet.

He even swore. TV repeats of his post-match rallying cry were beeped that many times he appeared to be speaking in Morse code.

In such a rare, wonderful example of raw honesty, the multi-millionaire vanished.

The face of hundreds of Liverpool billboards, England jersey campaigns and computer game covers disappeared.

Gerrard had been unmasked. He betrayed himself beautifully. He was just a man. He was everyman.

An hour or so later, John Terry stood in referee Phil Dowd's face and screamed at him to send off Chico Flores in the turgid contest between Swansea and Chelsea.

 

ANTI-CLIMAX

After the champagne served by both Liverpool and Manchester City, this was like being force-fed stale urine through a straw.

Not for the first time, Terry treated a weary audience to another example of why he is so easy to admire, but so difficult to like.

Perhaps he defines the tenacious, committed, cliched qualities that may yet carry Jose Mourinho's Chelsea to Premier League glory.

But, putting aside tribal loyalties, does anyone want such an outcome to play out in what would surely be a thoroughly dispiriting end to the season?

Unlike the Chelsea captain, how many times has Gerrard's career been dogged by controversy?

How many void-deck kids pretend to be Terry?

Maybe that's the problem. In our hearts of darkness, we might acknowledge that Terry embodies what the modern game really is; rich, self-centred, calculating and egotistical.

To paraphrase Anthony Hopkins paraphrasing Richard Nixon, when we look at Gerrard, we see what we want to be.

When we look at John Terry, we see what we really are.

Well, cynicism be damned.

Romanticism can win this one. A thoroughly decent role model should reign for a change.

Those persistent poachers from Stamford Bridge stuck a blank cheque through a fishing hook twice and Gerrard refused to take the bait, putting communal ties ahead of commercial gain.

Players kiss the club badge as a matter of routine, hoisting their jersey aloft with one hand while calling the agent and engineering a lucrative transfer with the other.

But Gerrard (above) means it. He was made on Merseyside.

Hillsborough shaped his sensibilities as a boy and moulded him as a man. He is cast in Liverpool colours for life.

The transient, panic-stricken nature of the EPL makes it unlikely that the League will be blessed with such an honourable man again.

And Gerrard is unlikely to get so close to the title again.

 

DESERVING

His teammates are equally deserving of a winner's medal, but other opportunities will come their way.

The same can be said for Man City and Chelsea.

But Gerrard is 34 next month. He's sipping cautiously at the last-chance saloon.

The Reds owe it to their leader to get the job done.

At the very least, they owe him for the Hollywood strike against West Ham in the 2006 FA Cup final, the miraculous winner against Olympiakos and, of course, that night in Istanbul.

Only one medal remains, the only fitting tribute for one man's devotion to a club and a community.

Liverpool must win the title for their skipper.

Gerrard's tears have already won over the rest of the world.

 

This article was published on April 15 in The New Paper.

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