God, it feels like it’s been forever since we’ve beaten them. With City coming up at the weekend, getting through this game unscathed was my chief concern, but I was especially anxious to see how we looked against a team with so many superstars, and against a side that absolutely battered us at Anfield the last time out in this competition. Arne Slot chose a strong XI, with Diaz, Darwin, and Salah up top, a midfield of Gravenberch, Mac Allister, and Curtis Jones, and a back four of Conor Bradley, Virgil, Big Ibou, and Andy Robbo. Kelleher again started between the sticks for the Redmen.
The Anfield atmosphere has made its return in the last several weeks. A massive banner reading ‘We are the men of the Anfield Spion Kop’ made its debut this evening, and in all fairness, that statement seemed to set the tone for the match. There are few greater venues in world sport than Anfield on a European night, and we were reminded once again just why that is. A raucous Kop belted out Gerry’s anthem, Conor Bradley adorned his Superman cape, Virgil led the lads onto the pitch, and away we went.
It only took 3 minutes for the Reds to lay down their initial mark of intent. After Salah robbed Mbappe of possession on the left wing, Darwin Nunez put his head down and charged about 30 yards through the heart of the Madrid midfield. He then found Salah on the right wing, before the Egyptian slotted him through on goal. The Uruguayan unleashed a venomous effort, forcing Courtois into a save that immediately brought back nightmares of the 2022 final, before the ball was miraculously cleared off the line.
The pressure applied by the men in Red throughout the half was relentless—but like a horror film stuck on repeat, the massive Belgian refused to be beaten time and time again. He again denied Nunez from point-blank range, and although the game was still young, the thoughts of our past against this Madrid side couldn’t help but worm their way into the back of my mind.
The power of Anfield is difficult to put into words, and on big occasions, seemingly insignificant events over the course of 90 minutes have a special way of igniting the atmosphere, taking it to another level of intensity. Up stepped Conor Bradley. The frustration of a series of dodgy refereeing decisions, coupled with the exasperation of watching Courtois stand on his head yet again in a game that we had dominated, began to take its toll. A rare Madrid counter-attack saw Mbappe running at full tilt down the left wing. Just as it had appeared that the Frenchman had beaten Macca for pace, a blur of red threw himself through the ball and the man, in a tackle that would have made Vinnie Jones crack a smile. The reaction from the Kop sounded as though we had scored, and it got Anfield rocking once more.
If the pressure before the Bradley challenge was relentless, it had now ratcheted up to suffocating. The Reds were still unable to find the opener prior to the break, but you could sense that the chances would continue to come. The second half started as the first had ended, and following yet another other-worldly save from the Belgian from the head of Conor Bradley, the Reds found the opener.
A sustained spell of possession saw Curtis Jones link with Alexis Mac Allister on the edge of the Madrid area, before the Argentine played a lovely wall pass with Bradley as he continued his way into the box. He took a determined first touch around what looked like a wall of white shirts, before swivelling and arrowing the ball into Courtois’ far post—not saving that one, you big bastard. 1-0 to the Reds, and everything seemed to point to more to come. But as is becoming a moniker used seemingly weekly in this blog, we are Liverpool, and it can never be straightforward.
Right on the hour mark, Madrid won a penalty with seemingly the only possession that they had enjoyed in our box the entire second half. A wild lunge from Andy Robbo sent Lucas Vazquez sprawling—and unfortunately, even I couldn’t make a case for it not to be given as a penalty. It was as stonewall as they come. Surely the billion-dollar man Mbappe will take it—he’s never missing, I’ve watched him score penalties for fun in stoppage time of a World Cup Final for Christ’s sake. I had forgotten that we employ the Cork reincarnation of Lev Yashin. The Irishman launched a sprawling left hand to Mbappe’s penalty, destined for the Annie Road End’s bottom corner, and the roof quite simply blew off of Anfield.
Several minutes later, it was our turn to do the exact same thing. A lightning-quick counter saw the Egyptian King put Ferland Mendy into a blender a la Lisandro Martinez in the Kop-end penalty area. The left-back dangled a boot of his own that sent Salah flying, and the Reds were awarded a penalty that would, for all intents and purposes, put the game to bed. You know the saying—it’s already been used—it never can be that simple. Mo sent Courtois the wrong way and blasted his penalty off the outside of the post. Fuck me.
The Kop responded defiantly with the King’s tune, and we continued to batter Madrid without much to show for it. A corner 15 minutes from time saw Cody Gakpo leap like a Scandinavian salmon from a corner whipped in by Andy Robbo, somehow finding himself alone within the Madrid 6-yard box. The Dutchman planted the ball into the back of the Kop End net, and we could finally breathe.
In what was meant to be an enjoyable final 15 minutes—two up and cruising—my worst fears became realized. Conor Bradley pulled up with an apparent hamstring injury 4 minutes from time, before Big Ibou went down following an extremely awkward challenge from the wholly incompetent child that is Endrick. While Bradley’s injury doesn’t appear to be serious, I’m absolutely terrified of Ibou’s prognosis—it ruined the entire evening for me.
The Reds remain unbeaten in the Champions League, and qualification should be all but wrapped up with three games remaining in the group stage. All focus now turns to City on Sunday, and I have full faith in a Joey G masterclass (maybe even a 35 yard screamer). Quite simply, just find a way to fucking win, Reds.
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