Michael Owen is roughly my age, just a couple of months older than me. I can’t say I grew up with him but I was still getting a couple of buses for college when the boy was getting into the scene. He adorned regularly the front page of my then weekly fix, the Match magazine, as in his first full season he scored 18 in the Premiership alone.
Back then, an avid Liverpool fan but still very far from understanding the city of Liverpool as I’ve never set foot into it, and probably too naïve to doubt anyone wearing the red shirt, Michael Owen was a sort of a hero. As much as Kurt Cobain used to be a personal hero. Very intransigent characters I know, but that’s the way it was. He had this awesome pace that sometimes in my head coupled perfectly with the rhythm of Kurt Cobain’s frenetic riffs in Lithium. And his coolness in front of the last defender and finishing sent a shiver down my spine as much as Cobain’s lyrics.
I felt like discovering a gem myself. And then came the World Cup, and I would be like a nervous parent watching him from home. And then that goal. And then falling on his own on the turf at Elland Road as a horrible season was drawing curtains. Memoirs of a teenager.
His goals never dried up. And then came the treble season. He missed out in Cardiff in February as Heskey was preferred while Fowler scored a screamer in a game that went to penalties against a lower league Birmingham. But Cardiff in May was different. A proper cup, the oldest in history, and the 21 year old far from disappoints. A couple of days later and he does his part again to put Liverpool again into the map of Europe.
And he continued doing his business. But doubts remain. Not medical or better physiological. This time a bit more psychological. Or even a question of class war. Fowler is admittedly living on his past deeds. Still he is the one really adored by the Kop. The local scally that has done good. The lad who supported the striking local dockers. Owen is more of a national verging on continental entity. And Liverpool is simply Scouse rather than English. It might sound petty but it isn’t. Fowler is bred in the streets of Toxteth, Owen on the plush grass of Lilleshall. And as the promise of Houllier’s early years start fading, and Champions League football is far from guaranteed at Anfield, talks of moving start gathering pace as much as he is losing his. His body language says it all in 2004. He still manages 16 in the Premiership, but he misses more than a couple of penalties, and sometimes he looks he simply wants to warm up for Portugal in summer. He feels the arena that is Anfield does not suit him anymore. He is not a romanticist. He feels better than his team mates and he just wants medals. Benitez arrives but the boy travels the opposite direction of the Spaniard, as with just a season left on his contract, Liverpool cut their losses.
Benitez gets the biggest medal European football can offer, Owen gets a regular seat at the Bernebau. He scores when put on but he seems to lack the bottle to fight for a regular place at one of the biggest clubs in Europe and finds himself at Newcastle. The boy who once said he will consider his future if his team mates can’t guarantee him Champions League football signs for a club that is far from thinking about UEFA Cup football.
He spends the four year contract at Tyneside, gets goals when he does actually play, and his last season ends with the ignominy of relegation. I wonder how much it hurts him though. He is sure he will not play in the Championship next season, and it’s just a bad year for him.
The Kop respected Owen but never loved him. Reciprocally Owen saw Anfield as the arena where he can ply his trade. You can take the boy out of Liverpool but you can’t take Liverpool out of the boy. It probably makes sense to the likes of Sami Hyypia. Michael Owen scored against Manchester United while in a Liverpool shirt. It is a statistic. Now he just signed for them.
Does it hurt me? Well, it does something as otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this. Has it shocked me? No. It just irritates me like a rash that a piece of recent history has been tainted and shown for what it really is. The bitter Scot might be grinning at this very moment thinking he’s wound us up properly. In his own words the boy has got a skin thicker than 99.9% of the population. I believe you as the Anfield aura never got to your bones. And yeah you never murdered anyone. A mercenary like you would just get someone else to do that for you.
Back then, an avid Liverpool fan but still very far from understanding the city of Liverpool as I’ve never set foot into it, and probably too naïve to doubt anyone wearing the red shirt, Michael Owen was a sort of a hero. As much as Kurt Cobain used to be a personal hero. Very intransigent characters I know, but that’s the way it was. He had this awesome pace that sometimes in my head coupled perfectly with the rhythm of Kurt Cobain’s frenetic riffs in Lithium. And his coolness in front of the last defender and finishing sent a shiver down my spine as much as Cobain’s lyrics.
I felt like discovering a gem myself. And then came the World Cup, and I would be like a nervous parent watching him from home. And then that goal. And then falling on his own on the turf at Elland Road as a horrible season was drawing curtains. Memoirs of a teenager.
His goals never dried up. And then came the treble season. He missed out in Cardiff in February as Heskey was preferred while Fowler scored a screamer in a game that went to penalties against a lower league Birmingham. But Cardiff in May was different. A proper cup, the oldest in history, and the 21 year old far from disappoints. A couple of days later and he does his part again to put Liverpool again into the map of Europe.
And he continued doing his business. But doubts remain. Not medical or better physiological. This time a bit more psychological. Or even a question of class war. Fowler is admittedly living on his past deeds. Still he is the one really adored by the Kop. The local scally that has done good. The lad who supported the striking local dockers. Owen is more of a national verging on continental entity. And Liverpool is simply Scouse rather than English. It might sound petty but it isn’t. Fowler is bred in the streets of Toxteth, Owen on the plush grass of Lilleshall. And as the promise of Houllier’s early years start fading, and Champions League football is far from guaranteed at Anfield, talks of moving start gathering pace as much as he is losing his. His body language says it all in 2004. He still manages 16 in the Premiership, but he misses more than a couple of penalties, and sometimes he looks he simply wants to warm up for Portugal in summer. He feels the arena that is Anfield does not suit him anymore. He is not a romanticist. He feels better than his team mates and he just wants medals. Benitez arrives but the boy travels the opposite direction of the Spaniard, as with just a season left on his contract, Liverpool cut their losses.
Benitez gets the biggest medal European football can offer, Owen gets a regular seat at the Bernebau. He scores when put on but he seems to lack the bottle to fight for a regular place at one of the biggest clubs in Europe and finds himself at Newcastle. The boy who once said he will consider his future if his team mates can’t guarantee him Champions League football signs for a club that is far from thinking about UEFA Cup football.
He spends the four year contract at Tyneside, gets goals when he does actually play, and his last season ends with the ignominy of relegation. I wonder how much it hurts him though. He is sure he will not play in the Championship next season, and it’s just a bad year for him.
The Kop respected Owen but never loved him. Reciprocally Owen saw Anfield as the arena where he can ply his trade. You can take the boy out of Liverpool but you can’t take Liverpool out of the boy. It probably makes sense to the likes of Sami Hyypia. Michael Owen scored against Manchester United while in a Liverpool shirt. It is a statistic. Now he just signed for them.
Does it hurt me? Well, it does something as otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this. Has it shocked me? No. It just irritates me like a rash that a piece of recent history has been tainted and shown for what it really is. The bitter Scot might be grinning at this very moment thinking he’s wound us up properly. In his own words the boy has got a skin thicker than 99.9% of the population. I believe you as the Anfield aura never got to your bones. And yeah you never murdered anyone. A mercenary like you would just get someone else to do that for you.
posted by jean paul at 11:39 pm
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