Danke, Jürgen - by Liam Randles

“We’re gonna win the league…” January 2020. Liverpool versus Man Utd. Stoppage time. A one goal lead. Mo Salah latched on to Alisson Becker’s punt up-field. A primal roar. The eyes of Anfield fixed on the Kop goal. The fervour dissipating into a split-second hush as the Egyptian stroked the ball past David De Gea.

No nervousness. No hesitation. A calm five-a-side finish. And then the release. All that pent-up energy. The frustration. The tension. Every last trace of doubt and apprehension swept away in a euphoric frenzy. “We’re gonna win the league…” When everybody knew. When no-one felt ashamed to sing it loud and clear. The potential and the possibilities engendered by that season’s work made tangible with a last-minute settler.

“We’re gonna win the league…” Because that was that. Every challenge overcome. Every team defeated. The one mark in the draw column set right. There was no way the Liverpool team of 2019-20 were not going to be champions. It was a case of studying the fixture list after that. Speculating when it would be sealed. Making celebratory plans with friends and family.

The winning run continued and the ringed dates on the calendar were revised accordingly. A chance of clinching it at the Etihad. Goodison Park. Even a home game around Easter time to become the earliest champions in the history of English football.

There were discussions about whether people would prefer to win it at Anfield or be in the away end at a rival’s ground when it was all said and done. Whether or not being crowned champions when we weren’t playing by virtue of Man City dropping points would feel anticlimactic. I simply didn’t care enough to state a preference. I only wanted to see it confirmed. That capital C beside Liverpool’s name at the top of the standings.

I was thirty-two during the 19-20 season. Two years old when we had last won the title back in 1990. Part of that generation of reds stuck in limbo. When the videos of great teams and players that we grew up on didn’t often tally with what we saw on the pitch. The stories from older relatives about title wins that almost seem predestined on account of how perfectly events unfolded. Beatles songs serenading Shankly’s best. Bob Paisley’s side surging up the table following a Boxing Day defeat to Man City. Kenny Dalglish’s peach of a winner at Stamford Bridge.

How could all of that have happened when outlandish flukes and weird twists of fate had become wearily familiar? Almost inevitable, in fact? Federico Macheda in the final minute and Gerrard’s nonsensical slip and Vincent Kompany’s one-in-a-million effort. The sort of crazy incidents that can tarnish even the greatest optimist with a fatalistic streak.

I would argue that was Jurgen Klopp’s first great achievement as Liverpool manager: ‘delivering what he said’ in turning ‘doubters into believers’. He made going the match fun again. He tuned us all into his vision.

No easy feat on the back of an almost decade-long spell marked by division and in-fighting. Hicks and Gillett’s stewardship. The Rafa wars. Kenny’s second stint souring. The 2014-15 hangover season under Rodgers. It is easy to forget that the club that Klopp arrived at was markedly different to one he will depart on Sunday.

2019-20 was shaping up to be the culmination of all his good work. Every positive step consolidated and built upon to the point where any poor performance was treated as an aberration rather than an underlying symptom of anything far more pressing. As 2019 rolled into 2020, the sense that we were watching something remarkable only increased. Notions of unbeaten seasons or record points totals did not seem fanciful in the slightest.

But, of course, 2020 had no intention of developing as we anticipated. It goes without saying that Covid’s impact on society exceeded its influence on football. The loss and devastation felt by families and the deterioration to people’s mental health were compounded by a prevailing climate of uncertainty. How long it would take before things returned to normal. If they ever would.

Many questions remain. Speaking as somebody who works in secondary education, the effects of the pandemic will still be with us for years to come. Young lives have been altered irrevocably and in ways that can barely be comprehended. Addressing the social and academic deficiencies caused by Covid is a struggle that seemingly has no end in sight.

The pandemic has left an imprint on everything it has touched, even to an extent where certain recollections from that time now take on a more surreal quality. That title-winning season, for instance, has the complexion of a fever dream. A season in two instalments. The last quarter played in the blazing sunshine usually reserved for summer tournaments. Plans to toast the team in pubs and clubs postponed as phrases like ‘social distancing’ became embedded in our lexicon. A distinct sense of ‘pre’ and ‘post’.

There was even the suggestion that the season was over at one stage. Talk the that the league would be settled on a points-per-game basis or scrapped altogether. That was one of a litany of worries during the purgatory of lockdown. No doubt it was situated at the minor end of the scale when weighed against other more pressing anxieties, but the idle hours and aimless drift of each new day had a habit of drawing each of these to the forefront of our thoughts at inopportune moments.

My grandad’s well-being was a notable worry. The years before had been tough for him and our family as a whole. His mobility had become severely compromised to put an end to regular pub trips with friends and forced his retirement from work. My grandmother passed away in 2017 to leave him isolated and vulnerable. A dementia diagnosis came not long afterwards. There was at least a positive prognosis with the worst symptoms able to be delayed with a course of regular medication, but the news was heart-breaking nonetheless.

His slow decline was a shock. He had always been a totemic figure. Someone who demonstrated the value of hard work and determination with an understated resilience. Those who have family members suffering from the disease can attest that there are fewer things more upsetting than watching your loved one become an unrecognisable shell of themselves over a prolonged period.

Covid amplified these anxieties. In addition to wondering what being cooped up alone all day would do to his sense of self, there were questions about what sort of care he would receive. Whether visiting would be possible. What if he were to contract the disease?

The first three-quarters of the season had at least given him some respite from the dementia. There were far more good days than bad. He was able to enjoy watching Liverpool win. Witness the prospect of a title win firm into a cast-iron certainty with each passing week. He was still able to talk about the performances of Van Dijk and Salah and Mane in glowing terms, though the stubborn old sod refused to bracket them with the players from the Shankly and Paisley eras. It was all a far cry from going to the match with him as a kid and hearing him swear for the first time after yet another David James flap, or the gallows humour he employed after 2013-14 when he told me, “You’re a lot younger than I am—I might not live to see us win the bloody thing again.”

Although said with his tongue in his cheek, that line stayed with me throughout 2019-20. I took a lot of pleasure in reminding him of that comment. Even mentioned that his sheer belligerence would ensure that he outlived all of us to witness a couple more.

Then came lockdown. The suspension of football. The absence of structure, of things to look forward to, of match dates to schedule in his diary saw his well-being plummet. The bad days started to outnumber the good. This unfortunately would have been inevitable, such is the nature of dementia, but there was nothing to punctuate the monotony or provide stimulation.

Spring turned into summer and with it came the relaxation of rules. The resumption of the football season. Three months having elapsed from when Liverpool beat Bournemouth to facing Everton at Goodison. The restart brought with it some much needed order and routine to my grandad’s life. Raised the possibility of regular visits to watch the remaining games together.

It would be an understatement to say that the trophy lift after beating Chelsea wasn’t how many of us pictured it. The majority confined to living rooms with only a handful of people for company. That goes for me also. But I now look upon that moment as a happy accident. Because not one scenario in my head when we were all making plans for the final home game involved being with my grandad.

My uncles and I visited him for that Chelsea game. We ordered a Chinese. Drank a few beers. Watched Liverpool come out on top in a madcap game. Made our peace with the trophy lift being what it was. Raised a glass to Liverpool and Jürgen Klopp.

My grandad was having a good day, thankfully. Lucid throughout. He even made a remark about how they weren’t as good as the teams from the seventies and eighties in an attempt at getting a rise. I glanced over towards him to see a slight smile form across his face as Jordan Henderson raised that trophy into the night sky. That was enough for me. An involuntary reflex as significant as being with 60,000 others inside Anfield.

Klopp’s departure this Sunday is a reminder that nothing lasts. Things change. Everything moves on. The memories of the trophy wins and the wild games and the comebacks against insurmountable odds are what will stay with us when the emotions cool and we take time to reflect. When I come to do the same, that evening with my grandad will feature in my thoughts. And all I can do is offer my deepest gratitude to the man who made it happen.

Danke, Jürgen

Liam Randles

Instagram: @lrandleswriter