Spurs’ trouncing of Manchester City on Saturday meant two things: Liverpool would have a chance to go 8 points clear of Guardiola’s side at the top of the Premier League table with a win over Southampton at St Mary’s on Sunday; and Southampton were bound to show up playing like the 2002 Brazil team, despite appearing uncertain of how to kick a football for most of the season. Both statements proved to be objective truths by about 3:15 on Sunday afternoon. We just can never make it easy, can we?
Arne Slot’s side (still suffering from numerous injuries of their own) lined up with Kelleher between the sticks, as Alisson continues his battle to recover from the hamstring injury he picked up at Crystal Palace in October. The back four consisted of Andy Robbo, Big Ibou, Virgil, and Conor Bradley at right-back for the injured TAA. The midfield consisted of Ryan Gravenberch, Curtis Jones, and Dominik Szoboszlai, while Cody Gakpo, Darwin Nunez, and the Egyptian King started up top for the Reds. Luis Diaz and Alexis Mac Allister began the afternoon on the bench following an incredibly busy international break for both. Harvey Elliot also made his return to the squad, following the foot injury that has sidelined him up until this point in the season. The traveling Kop occupied the away end, the wind swirled and howled as a byproduct of Storm Bert, Virgil led out the lads, and away we went.
The game started at a lively pace, with the hosts making it clear from the early stages that they wouldn’t be satisfied with sitting back and defending in a low block—this also resulted in several early chances for the Reds after winning the ball back and launching rapid counters. While the game did eventually take this form in the latter stages, given the events that were to unfold, the Saints and Russell Martin did not change their identity at kickoff; if anything, they seemed to amplify it.
A lengthy spell of Liverpudlian pressure dominated the middle portion of the half. A smattering of efforts were fired at McCarthy—many of which came from around the edge of the 18-yard box—and all of which the Englishman was equal to. However, Southampton’s identity, which has seemingly become “play out from the back at any and all costs,” was soon to bite them. Right on the half-hour mark, after claiming a wayward ball in the Southampton penalty area, Alex McCarthy somewhat robotically rolled the ball out to the top of the 18, immediately putting its recipient in red under nightmarish pressure. Curtis Jones continued to press like a man possessed, forcing the ball to be played in a panic to an already retreating Flynn Downes, who had essentially been pushed back to the by-line to receive the pass. Off-balance and still under the pressure of Jones, Downes attempted a wild left-footed clearance that found Dominik Szoboszlai at the top of the 18. Mimicking the age-old training ground exercise of “two-touch,” the Hungarian, surely in disbelief at his luck, cushioned the clearance with the instep of his left boot before producing a curler that kissed McCarthy’s far post on its journey to the back of the net. Thirty minutes gone, 1-0 to the good. Surely it’ll be plain sailing from here, right?
Of course not. We are Liverpool. The response from Saints was positive, but we were predominantly the orchestrators of the pressure that we began to find ourselves under. Sloppy passes in our own half, lack of winning second balls, and an overall drop in intensity seemed to creep over the side. Before long, Southampton were right back in the game. Following a poor giveaway, leaving Andy Robbo on his own to stop Tyler Dibbling from running full tilt, the Scotsman’s wild lunge sent the youngster sprawling, and Samuel Barrott pointed to the spot. Whether it was or wasn’t actually a penalty is a moot point because the scenario to begin with was needless and self-inflicted. Although Kelleher was equal to Armstrong’s initial effort, the forward was able to follow the rebound to tap home the equalizer three minutes from halftime.
Ten minutes into the second half, we found ourselves trailing. Once again, architects of our own downfall, and the chance coming from our own corner, I was utterly lost for words. It must be said, it was a brilliant counter-attack from Saints, with Dibbling again showcasing his willingness to run and his passing range, carving us open with a cross-field pass that found a galloping Adam Armstrong on the edge of our penalty area. The Scotsman then cut it back onto his right foot, exposing three retreating defenders who had overcommitted, leaving Mateus Fernandez free to tuck home a first-time finish beyond a stunned Kelleher. 2-1 down with 35 minutes to play, we were about to discover what the spine of this team was made of.
Out of seemingly nothing, we found ourselves level eight minutes after going behind. Saints, desperate to defend their advantage, began sitting deeper and deeper in their own half, giving our midfield ample time and space on the ball. Ryan Gravenberch, approaching the halfway line, spotted an inch-perfect run from Mohamed Salah down the right wing and floated a ball into his path. Alex McCarthy had come well off his line, only to atrociously misjudge the pass from Gravenberch, leaving the Egyptian King with what must have been a split second of sheer confusion and delight as the ball fell to his left boot. A sharp stabbing toe-poke from 17 yards saw the ball roll beyond the vacant McCarthy and into the empty net to bring us level with 25 minutes to play. The traveling Kop exploded into their familiar tune for the King, and as a collective, I think we all began to believe, “when,” not “if.”
Rampant pressure followed from the Reds. A succession of corners that saw an equal collection of saves and near misses kept the scoreline stubbornly at 2-2, but that was soon to change. Salah again cut onto his left foot and delivered a wicked inswinger just beyond the Southampton penalty area 10 minutes from time, in an attempt to pick out a late-arriving Andrew Robertson at the back post. The substitute Sugawara, who was tracking the Scotsman’s run, was able to undercut the pass, but he too misjudged its flight, and his flailing right arm cushioned the ball back to the Southampton goalkeeper.
Although I’ve lost track of what the fuck actually constitutes a handball anymore by law, this certainly was one. Thankfully, the PGMOL agreed (maybe they had left the studio to replenish their stash of Class A drugs), and up stepped who else but the King. The Egyptian’s classic curving run-up preceded a rocket to the top left-hand corner, and before his song could reach full pelt, his abs were on display once more. As his shirt floated back to earth, and the away end seemingly threatened to spill over the hoardings and onto the pitch in a show of unrequited love, the three words “make us dream” were all that I could summon within my moderately inebriated mind. Win next week, and maybe I won’t be hesitant to.
3-2, happy days. 8 points clear, happy days. A massive week ahead. We welcome Madrid to Anfield on Wednesday evening in the UCL, a game that I think we should play the u21s in, but that’s why these sorts of decisions are not my job. And then Sunday—my words won’t do it justice. Up the Pissboiling Reds. Make us dream.
PS: Give the man what he wants, John Henry. It’s fucking embarrassing.
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