A Tale of Two (and a half) Decades

I wrote this in 2015 just prior to Jurgen Klopp taking over the club. This is a fictional retelling of highs and lows across twenty-five years of my life. But it is also the journey of Liverpool FC from 1990 to 2015. You might sense their journey running quietly through these lines. I never name the club. But they are there. For those who know where to look.

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It was the best of times.

He was top of the class and graduated with spectacular results. The undisputed king of hearts. Loved and feared by everyone in equal measure, he had partied like there was no tomorrow and drank to many a success on the morrow.

It was the worst of times.

The hangover hit hard. He took a huge swig of the beer again instead of the lemon water and proceeded to his new school. The faces were unfamiliar, the silence strange, the air putrid, and the voices had a hollow ring to them. Nothing felt right anymore.

It was the age of wisdom.

He kept in touch with his old friends, made some new ones, topped his midterms, and even got a couple of eyelashes fluttered in his direction. Life wasn’t great, but it was coming back together. Slowly.

It was the age of foolishness.

He was once again the man they all loved. He loved that. He loved the attention too. Though this time, it was different. He took more swigs, more punches, and more shots. Sleep came late. Hangovers came early. He did prove himself now and again, but he never climbed the ladder to the top of the class again.

It was the epoch of belief.

He filled up a tub with ice cubes, dipped his head in, and walked down memory lane. As the good times came rushing back, warm tears trailed down his cold, cold cheek. He didn’t have much time, but maybe, just maybe, he could still make a difference.

It was the epoch of incredulity.

He finished near the top again. Bagged praises, won prizes outside the classroom. He wasn’t who he used to be, but he was better than he had been in a long while. It was a path of recovery that needed a stamp of approval. And he got that when he bagged the top job on offer at campus.

It was the season of Light.

The job was fantastic. His colleagues were kind. He even found love. She understood him like no one ever did before, and he could just be with her forever and ever. Promotions came, love deepened, and life felt perfect.

It was the season of darkness.

He didn’t know when it began, but everything went downhill. She changed. Promises were broken. Love soured. She left. He lost his job and struggled to pay his debts. That day, he learned what it meant to feel numb. Truly numb.

It was the spring of hope.

The rain stopped. Clouds gave way to light. The world was still messy. Potholes, traffic, impatience. Oh boy, a lot of impatience. But he had something new. A bike. His first. And boy, was it fun to ride. Music in his ears. Smile on his face. Shades on. Helmet tight. He zipped through life again.

It was the winter of despair.

Joy was short-lived. An accident. The bike wasn’t totaled, but he couldn’t ride. Recovery was slow. But he met new friends. And her. With a smile that lit up rooms and words that softened wounds. When he left the hospital, he wasn’t back to his best, but she made sure he would be.

We had everything before us.

He returned to his old job. They needed the old spice back. He blitzed deadlines, rewrote timelines, and reinvented the rulebook. With her by his side, he soared. He proposed to her. She hugged him and smiled sadly. Said no. The bosses passed him over for promotion too.

We had nothing before us.

He avoided his new friends. His old ones were married and distant. He had money but no joy. Time, but no one to spend it with. A job that didn’t work. A mind that didn’t move. He was so disillusioned with life yet too cowardly to take it out or take it head-on. And so, he just existed.

We were all going direct to heaven. We were all going direct the other way.

His life had reached its final crossroads. His legs were weak. His heart was tired. He had one last journey in him. So, he chose the path that was well-worn, yet soft enough for aching feet.

In short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on it being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.