THE BIGGEST PSYCHOLOGICAL trauma of most people’s young lives is the realisation that their parents are not infallible, don’t have all the answers and can’t keep them safe for ever. Our teenage years are spent looking for something to ease the shocking insecurity of that fact, something to believe in again.
Typically this takes the form of a slavish devotion to whoever happens to be the voice of that particular generation. But, as Noel Gallagher warned my particular generation: Please don’t put your life in the hands, of a rock and roll band, who’ll throw it all away. (Gallagher was as good as his word, subsequently releasing Be Here Now, Oasis’s rubbish third album).
This happens in every era. Bowie found pop, Dylan found God, Elvis found fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Our heroes disappoint us because they are human and can never be what we want them to be.
So you grow up and realise that your parents are indeed fallible, but infinitely less fallible than rock stars, and you sort of deal with that and get on with things.
Which makes it all the more strange, after all that life learning, that as adults we repeatedly go and do the exact same thing with charismatic football managers: investing in them with the trusting faith of a child. It’s almost like our lives as football supporters exist in a state of psychological amnesia, like emotional goldfish, happy to fall for the next guy who’s going to make everything okay.
This is a long-winded way of telling Liverpool fans that Jurgen Klopp is kind of like your Dad.
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It was easy to get caught up in the build-up to Wednesday’s Europa League final. I travelled to Liverpool for the club’s media day ahead of the final last Friday. The positivity was contagious.
Our taxi driver gave us an impromptu cultural tour: John Lennon’s childhood home, Strawberry Fields, Ken Dodd’s house. Local papers fawned over the club’s player of the year celebrations in a manner befitting a team higher than eighth in the Premier League. Fans gathered around the Melwood training ground chattering about tickets for the final and, most of all, Klopp-spotting.
The manager radiated good vibes as he prowled around Melwood, signing autographs and conducting interviews. His mix of earnestness and madcap, self-deprecating humour beguiled all in his path.
The Klopp that Liverpool fans have seen until now has been like a character from a children’s book. He even looks like a Quentin Blake illustration: overbite, shaggy beard, floppy hair. The Big Friendly German. He arrived suddenly into their lives and led them on a crazy adventure, full of laughs and learning.
This week was supposed to be the latest chapter in a happy-ever-after story. Klopp would make sure Liverpool’s unlikely turnaround was completed by winning the Europa League; Champions League football next season would attract superstars to add to the rough diamonds of the current squad and everyone would be happy and safe forever.
But just like your parents and Oasis, Klopp is fallible. Maybe he got some things wrong on Wednesday night. Perhaps a more solid team selection was justified. Perhaps he allowed a costly mental slippage during half time. Perhaps he could have changed things more quickly. Maybe expectations were too high to begin with, certainly with the self-destructive capabilities of Alberto Moreno in the team. But for the Liverpool support, their team’s second half collapse against Sevilla was the crushing of a kid’s dreams by horrible adult realities.
Success in sport makes your mind take on a childish shape: optimistic, oblivious to danger, free from doubt. Failure is very a adult experience, bringing disappointment, awareness of limitations, bitter regret.
Any sports fan knows how Liverpool fans are feeling. We’ve all felt let down, foolish for having had faith, resolved never to believe again. But we do anyway.
So what are Liverpool left with? The Big Friendly German may not be as friendly in the near future. He will cast a cold eye on his squad and see where surgery is required. The loving talk of development, of a squad he alone believed in, will be parked. Transfer reconstruction and brutal pre-season punishment comes next.
Liverpool and Klopp are entering the tough love phase of the parent-child relationship. They’ve found out that he is fallible, that things aren’t necessarily going to always be sweetness and light, but you know what? He’s got their best interests at heart. This ‘gegenpressing’ hurts me more than it hurts you. As long as you’re under this roof you’ll do three training sessions a day. That sort of thing.
This week was a reminder not to put your life in the hands of a football manager, but given time under Klopp, and realistic expectations, perhaps Liverpool might not look back in anger on their experience in Basel.
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Our heroes disappoint us because they're human, football managers are no different
THE BIGGEST PSYCHOLOGICAL trauma of most people’s young lives is the realisation that their parents are not infallible, don’t have all the answers and can’t keep them safe for ever. Our teenage years are spent looking for something to ease the shocking insecurity of that fact, something to believe in again.
Typically this takes the form of a slavish devotion to whoever happens to be the voice of that particular generation. But, as Noel Gallagher warned my particular generation: Please don’t put your life in the hands, of a rock and roll band, who’ll throw it all away. (Gallagher was as good as his word, subsequently releasing Be Here Now, Oasis’s rubbish third album).
This happens in every era. Bowie found pop, Dylan found God, Elvis found fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Our heroes disappoint us because they are human and can never be what we want them to be.
So you grow up and realise that your parents are indeed fallible, but infinitely less fallible than rock stars, and you sort of deal with that and get on with things.
Which makes it all the more strange, after all that life learning, that as adults we repeatedly go and do the exact same thing with charismatic football managers: investing in them with the trusting faith of a child. It’s almost like our lives as football supporters exist in a state of psychological amnesia, like emotional goldfish, happy to fall for the next guy who’s going to make everything okay.
This is a long-winded way of telling Liverpool fans that Jurgen Klopp is kind of like your Dad.
It was easy to get caught up in the build-up to Wednesday’s Europa League final. I travelled to Liverpool for the club’s media day ahead of the final last Friday. The positivity was contagious.
Our taxi driver gave us an impromptu cultural tour: John Lennon’s childhood home, Strawberry Fields, Ken Dodd’s house. Local papers fawned over the club’s player of the year celebrations in a manner befitting a team higher than eighth in the Premier League. Fans gathered around the Melwood training ground chattering about tickets for the final and, most of all, Klopp-spotting.
The manager radiated good vibes as he prowled around Melwood, signing autographs and conducting interviews. His mix of earnestness and madcap, self-deprecating humour beguiled all in his path.
The Klopp that Liverpool fans have seen until now has been like a character from a children’s book. He even looks like a Quentin Blake illustration: overbite, shaggy beard, floppy hair. The Big Friendly German. He arrived suddenly into their lives and led them on a crazy adventure, full of laughs and learning.
This week was supposed to be the latest chapter in a happy-ever-after story. Klopp would make sure Liverpool’s unlikely turnaround was completed by winning the Europa League; Champions League football next season would attract superstars to add to the rough diamonds of the current squad and everyone would be happy and safe forever.
But just like your parents and Oasis, Klopp is fallible. Maybe he got some things wrong on Wednesday night. Perhaps a more solid team selection was justified. Perhaps he allowed a costly mental slippage during half time. Perhaps he could have changed things more quickly. Maybe expectations were too high to begin with, certainly with the self-destructive capabilities of Alberto Moreno in the team. But for the Liverpool support, their team’s second half collapse against Sevilla was the crushing of a kid’s dreams by horrible adult realities.
Success in sport makes your mind take on a childish shape: optimistic, oblivious to danger, free from doubt. Failure is very a adult experience, bringing disappointment, awareness of limitations, bitter regret.
Any sports fan knows how Liverpool fans are feeling. We’ve all felt let down, foolish for having had faith, resolved never to believe again. But we do anyway.
So what are Liverpool left with? The Big Friendly German may not be as friendly in the near future. He will cast a cold eye on his squad and see where surgery is required. The loving talk of development, of a squad he alone believed in, will be parked. Transfer reconstruction and brutal pre-season punishment comes next.
Liverpool and Klopp are entering the tough love phase of the parent-child relationship. They’ve found out that he is fallible, that things aren’t necessarily going to always be sweetness and light, but you know what? He’s got their best interests at heart. This ‘gegenpressing’ hurts me more than it hurts you. As long as you’re under this roof you’ll do three training sessions a day. That sort of thing.
This week was a reminder not to put your life in the hands of a football manager, but given time under Klopp, and realistic expectations, perhaps Liverpool might not look back in anger on their experience in Basel.
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