Twelve million pounds.
A lot can be done with £12 million. Even more could be done with it in 1997.
But I didn’t care. It could have been £20 million and I still wouldn’t have cared. This was Steve McManaman. I wanted him to stay forever. There was no one else like him at Liverpool. To me there was no one else like him in England, in Europe, in the world. No money can replace the hole where a heart once lived.
A £12 million pound deal for an established English talent would now be an extraordinary coup. The television money that has created such a financial climate has also created wall to wall football coverage. It is impossible to imagine not seeing your team play for a week (barring international breaks) never mind for months. Back in 1992 this was the norm for me. That season Liverpool reached the FA Cup final. The last time I had glimpsed Liverpool was in the semi final replay against Portsmouth. To even watch the final on TV was huge, the build up seemed to last weeks. The anticipation for my 11 year old self was enough for my head to burst.
There was a problem. A birthday party. One of my school friends was having a party at the exact time of the cup final. I tried to explain to my mum why I needed to miss the party and watch the game. She was not accepting of my idea, but did promise to record the game. VHS to the rescue. It solved nothing. In between cake and mini pool all I could think of was the cup final. What was happening? Who was winning? Who had scored?
As soon as I got home I was in front of the TV and the old silver top loading VCR. Rewinding all the way back. Of course mum didn’t know what time the game kicked off. When I hit play, 10 minutes were already on the clock, but the game was goal less. That was until the start of the second half when a tall, thin winger picked up the ball wide on the right hand side of that vast old Wembley pitch. McManaman jinked away from one Sunderland defender. As the second closed him down a flick of the outside of the right boot sent the ball into the box. Michael Thomas’ volleyed strike was fantastic but it was McManaman who had caught my attention.
In Summer ’97 Barcelona’s interested in Steve McManaman cooled. They shifted focus to decent player named Rivaldo. Then came interest from Juventus. The relief following the Barcelona rumours disappearing were immediately replaced by the anxiety of Juventus stepping in. When this went away and Gerard Houllier made McManaman Liverpool captain the next summer all started to look rosy in the reds garden. Yet, the shadow of a counting down contract hung over it all.
The next time Liverpool reached a cup final I made certain that I would not suffer the same experience. I placed myself, in my chevroned Liverpool kit, squarely in front of the television set. The Coca-Cola Cup may not have been the FA Cup but it was still a cup final and it was still my team. Once again McManaman was the inspiration with two individual goals and the man of the match award.
Robbie Fowler received most of the plaudits. Liverpool’s opponents knew that it wasn’t Fowler who had to be stopped. It was McManaman. The playmaker, the dribbler, the creator. Though McManaman never scored more than 12 goals in a season he would often score important or spectacular goals. Two in a cup final. A winner at Highbury. Or running with the ball from deep inside his own half to equalise at Celtic. Then following it up with a replica strike against Aston Villa. All attributes and endeavours that gave McManaman a special place in my heart.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBOF7HqoMGk
Then it came. In January 1999 Real Madrid offered Steve McManaman a contract. Not only would he be leaving but he would be leaving for nothing. It turned into a lengthy farewell tour. Not an enjoyable one. This was death by one thousand cuts. Each moment of excellence leaving another slice. Sure Fowler was there. Michael Owen had emerged. This just made things worse. With McManaman there as well greatness was surely round the corner. Stay and flourish. These were my wishes, my dreams, but they were gone. Steve McManaman was a Real Madrid player and I was lost.
To make matters worse, I couldn’t even see him. This was worse than a break up. Not only had my love left me but they had gone to Mars. Or close enough. I had no Sky Sports at the time. The papers occasionally would mention a goal or performance. My only hope was a late night glimpse of a Champions League highlight. So when the 2000 Champions League final came around it was 1992 all over again. This time it was not about my team, it was about a chance to see him. Just like in ’92 he delivered. I was happy for him. He had moved on to better things.
Meanwhile, Liverpool had moved on. Robbie Fowler and Michael Owen continued to fire and another skinny kid had made his debut at right back. All three had the potential to break my heart again, but McManaman had hardened me. When Robbie Fowler left it was painful but manageable. Michael Owen leaving showed that both the club and the fans had learned their lessons. Owen may have left for a fraction of his worth, but at least the club got something. The skinny right back almost broke hearts twice, but wouldn’t leave until moving onto LA Galaxy. By that stage Steven Gerrard had done enough to choose his own time and place of exit.
After McManaman, it was never quite the same. No player ever dug themselves in as deep again. And no player ever hurt so hard. And I thank him for it. For all of it.