Anfield on the Hudson

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.