Anfield on the Hudson

(Alas this entry is not about Ms. Johanson, although the importance of a catchy headline can never be overlooked). Experts who endlessly inform us next week’s Champions League final will be a match for the finest ever are dreaming and best ignored; good riddance to the hype. If the prospect of our greatest rivals retaining the trophy is too much to bear, go back four years in Time to this excellent article and its evocation of brighter days.

The film to which its author alludes, Fever Pitch, aired in its American incarnation on Saturday, ironically within a couple hours of Liverpool losing the league. Finishing second this season was painful but not a patch on the agony inflicted on all Reds with our runners-up end to ‘89, as depicted by Colin Firth and Co in the movie’s English original.

Mark my words (or his) history doesn’t repeat, it rhymes. Hence with apologies to yesterday’s headline, this one is about pork pies of a distasteful kind. Boycotts are often slow to gain widespread support (especially when they support Manchester United). But efforts to get Steven Cohen, host of the phonetically challenged Fox Football Fone-In and an apology of a presenter, off air appear to be attracting an audience.

Some might say a publicity hound is best dealt with by quarenteening the attention they receive, but best not let sleeping dogs slumber. The end of one report, with the correspondent relaying Cohen’s professed wish to let the subject “lie”, is an unintentionally revealing formulation. And the English say us Americans don’t do irony.

Day to dread as Man U’s equaling of a long cherished record means, unlike one of our erstwhile Friends, they will never see 17 Again. (Neither will I actually, it being at best a rainy-day rental). A Premier League campaign is more marathon than sprint, notwithstanding Usain Bolt’s appearance as United were crowned kings again after a nine month march down Coronation Street. That they did so with a home draw was appropriately ironic, for such desultory results have decided the destiny of the title. Stalemates manufactured not in Manchester (this was their first at Old Trafford since opening day; every other game except one was won) but Merseyside.

Time and again and again and again and again and again and again encounters at Anfield ended all square. A Granite City man surveys the table top for one reason only: if ties are akin to a kiss with your sis we have been far too familial for far too long. On the same afternoon Take the Points labored home last at Pimlico, Liverpool’s failure to finish first owed everything to not taking all three often enough. (I should point out no Passport is required to visit this Pimlico, it being in Baltimore. Not to be confused with the London neighborhood where Liverpool fan Michael Howard lives).

So our quest to be called champions of England enters its twentieth year. Still, small mercies: this week did see one piece of silverware return home for the first time since 1990. And if sporting do-overs a decade and a half down the line become the done thing, this season’s prize is coming our way in 2024.

Man United’s march to the title now has an air of inevitability among some but I am not ready to sell out just yet.

Speaking of, it is axiomatic of the stock market to “sell in May and go away”. If the idea of investing in equities doesn’t bring you to tears, this week’s Barron’s says shares of Hansen Natural are on a tear. No surprise to all of us who remember Alan Hansen as a natural in penalty, and television, box.

‘John Lennon: The New York City Years’ opens today with Yoko Ono opining his “heart was here even when he was in Liverpool”. Sweet.

An unlucky day for philatelists. Not because it’s 13 years since our FA Cup Final loss to United, an awful game which will never be commemorated with one of those first day covers.

No, unfortunately for those who still snail mail rates rise a couple pennies today. Inflation always annoys, but my two cents worth is it’s pointless getting mad at Mr. Mailman, even if he is a Mancunian. After all, Liverpudlians can recall a far more painful encounter with the post.

A week which began with an iron maiden’s anniversary ends with a trip to Thames Ironworks, where West Ham were no match for the man of steel. Their goalkeeper did get to Gerrard’s penalty but was beaten to the rebound, reminding everyone it isn’t easy being Green. This was an impressive win at a tricky venue for title aspirants, one witnessed by former Tory head and ardent Liverpool follower Michael Howard.

Howard is the fifth Conservative/Republican referenced in this space since Monday, right behind Maggie, Berlusconi, Ronnie and Henry. Lest Liverpool left wingers - of the Hatton or Heighway variety - take umbrage, time to point out Saturday’s win (over opponents who can claim Obama as a supporter) was witnessed by the Spirit of Shankly, which skews socialist and would likely skewer Mrs T.

Happy Mother’s Day to all soccer moms. Alas it’s increasingly hard to keep mum that Manchester United are now thisclose to an eighteenth championship. Their ability to drive opposition fans up the wall (even those unable to commandeer a car) and other teams down the table was again in evidence as they double crossed their crosstown rivals. Though they did have the benefit of a boxer engine.

So we can kiss the Kissinger Final farewell. Asked who he wanted to win the Iran-Iraq war, Henry hypothesized “It’s too bad they can’t both lose”. Which is how any Liverpudlian viewed the prospect of a second successive decider between Devils and Deep Blue ‘Sea.

Despite a Mercurial performance, Barcelona still have a chance to sing the song that matters. Meanwhile even a dignified departure was beyond Chelsea and Didier Drogba, whose fit of Pique at the ref included this crazy rant. During the unpleasantness he appeared more apoplectic than apologetic but now says sorry, a flip-flop which surprised no one who saw his shoe. This time a last gasp goal left his team vanquished, not victorious, and it being on the other foot was clearly uncomfortable. A heavy fine will follow, with Barça evidently in no position to lend a tenner.

Mercifully, we may soon be able to give Swine Flu a Mexican Wave goodbye. (But only after washing those hands). The virus actually answers to the name H1N1, and cannot of course be caught from pork. Doubtless to the relief of Luis Figo, who came into contact with a flying pig some years ago. It remains a concern in soccer stadiums however, and thus this column cannot condone any attempts to make light of the affliction, even at Everton’s expense. Especially since history suggests Liverpool will not be at the vanguard of a vaccine.

Assuming those Cinco de Mayo hangovers are over, a safer option may be a Mexican fútbol movie released today. This is a golden age for film directors from south of the Rio Grande - Babel of course won an Academy Award for best original score. Although personally I preferred his season’s first goal.

Yesterday’s subject scored his first domestic goal against Man United and made his final European impact on Arsenal, so a fast recap of Tuesday’s semi final between the two is in order. (Brings to mind the old line: “Can I have a quick word?” Sure. ‘Velocity’”).

Amazing how all who’re inspired against us are awful opposing others. Immediately after being butterfingered in the loss to Chelsea, the Pole in The Gunners goal is excellent at Anfield. That match also saw Fernando Torres foiled by a crucial goal line clearance from Kieran Gibbs. The same Gibbs (a relative of Manchester raised Maurice?) whose dog’s dinner attempt at defending gifted Korea’s Ji-Sung Park an opening accepted without a second’s Seoul searching.

If only Arsenal, indestructible at home in the competition since the days of their unbeaten streak, had shown the same naked aggression as their favorite streaker we might have had a match. Instead a team who supplied supporters red flags at the start ended up waving white ones. (Dido is after all an afficianado of all things Islington).

So United, on the road to ruin against Porto, had a great escape. Apropos, for this week I learned an architect of history’s finest ever extrication was a Mancunian. News brought to me by The New York Times, the same day it insisted Ronaldo was named in honor of Reagan the “actor“. Whereas The Wall Street Journal asserted the appellation praised the “president“. Which goes to show everything is in the lie of the beholder.

I am Sam is, as indicated in an Oscar edition, a film with Liverpool echos although as far as I know it doesn’t deal with Sami Hyypiä, the Finn whose LFC career is now near a finish. Thus allow me a testimonial. (Our erstwhile captain deserves one too, since this month marks his tenth anniversary at Anfield).

Houllier bought some defensive duds. Frodo Baggins, even at four feet, would’ve made more sense than Frode Kippe. The £2.6 million purchase of Hyypiä a decade ago however has provided reason to party like it’s 1999 ever since and is arguably our best ever acquisition.

Apart from the obvious organization he brought to the back, his 35 goals for the club remarkably included strikes in three separate Champions League quarter finals. Surely some sort of center half record and as astonishing as Lucas having now scored for us in four different competitions. (Five if I’m being friendly).

Sami’s status as a Liverpool legend is recognized by all, not least a countryman who occupies opposite ends of both pitch and age spectrum. Today’s title takes its name from a work by the good doctor so while sayonaras are always emotional, try to remember another Seuss saying.

Another day, another entry about a right of center European politician. So Silvio’s significant other is nixing the nuptials. Seems AC Milan’s owner and Italy’s occasional Prime Minister sees marriage as secondary to a search for youth, in the form of his face, his footballers and his females.

Since it takes two to tangle, one hopes both Berlusconis think long and hard about the implications of a quickie divorce. Signore especially, since he knows a thing or two about how fast moving events can echo in eternity.