Liverpool—Arsenal Review: The Fortress, The Hairdryer and The Omen!

I'd stated in the Anfield preview that, despite being relatively early in the season, victory was the only option for both these great clubs, each for their own agendas.

But to the here and now, and what a day Sunday December 13th may well turn out to be. 1-0 down at half-time to an invigorated Liverpool side feeling the heat of their fervent support, the mumbles of dissatisfaction at the management, and the furious voices of dissent at the ownership; we looked down and out. Not because there was just one goal in it; we were second best to everything, including Wenger's favourite analytical snippet- the 50-50s!

Beriddled with injuries, possibly fatigue too, as well as the strain of Liverpool's woes all season, you very much sensed another humiliating defeat in the cards, and with it our title aspirations well and truly gone, despite Chelsea and Manchester United's most sincere efforts to get us back into it.

But, then came the interval. Whatever was said (or screamed) in that away dressing room at halftime, we will never exactly find out. Not fully anyway, as Cesc was rather intent on letting us know that the charges were all accused of "not being fit to wear the shirt"; a sign that, if anything, the manager has frankly had enough of this occasionally wearisome bullshit himself.

Truth be told, it's nice to see that Le Boss can sometimes embody the passion and zeal of hundreds of thousands of supporters who must've been fearing the worst following Dirk Kuyt's well-deserved 40th minute opener. Late as it was in the first half, and the result of another Almunia blunder during a top clash by the way, the writing was on the wall at that point, especially considering that Liverpool had lost just one league game out of 38 at Anfield. More astonishingly, Liverpool hadn't lost in the Premier League at Anfield having taken the lead for God only knows how long. But I'll come onto that...

But, despite being the fortress it is, Fabregas and co. came out as men reborn for the second half, the invective from their usually-taciturn and reasoned mentor clearly ringing in their eardrums.

What followed: a true transformation of luck, performance, and crucially, result. With Lucas and Mascherano pegged back in the midfield by a previously overpowered Song and anonymous Denilson, Cesc was looking more and more menacing, making the sort of runs and covering blades of grass previously untouched from the first period. The defence held their own, almost perfectly containing Torres and strangulating Gerrard, Liverpool's heartbeat. Such a contrast to the horror show against Drogba and Anelka a fortnight back, and a marked juxtaposition to their rendition of the headless chickens act in the opening 45!

The front three, so often evolving this season but with their effectiveness and penetration largely unaffected by the changes in personnel and position, finally started playing, with Theo Walcott in particular showing why we expect so much of him; his pace and constant nuisance leading to Glen Johnson's unfortunate dink past his own goalkeeper with Theo on hand to tap-in for 1-1. This, following some tenacious play from Samir Nasri, whose class, versatility, and absolute ease on the ball at his feet make him one of our most prized unsung assets.

Liverpool's legs were then starting to desert them. Also feeling somewhat lost at how they hadn't put the game to bed by that point, as well as peeved at not getting what looked to be a blatant penalty earlier in the contest, we took full control of proceedings, the winner coming not long after. A cross-field ball into the box by the Captain and a good chest-down and hold-off by Arshavin, playing the role of the central striker with some guile. Then, a moment of true magic, with a sudden twist and turn by the Russian magician. Whack! 2-1! Game over!

Quite surprising since this was just before the hour, with the Arsenal defence and midfield holding things superbly and preventing our customary perspiration in the closing moments. Amazing what a dressing-down does to you sometimes, possibly saving our season.

Indeed, this isn't the first time it had emerged that the manager had delivered a halftime hairdryer so often attributed to his long-term rival, only to turn the match, and the season, on its head. Also 1-0 down at half-time at the then-newly-opened City of Manchester Stadium in September 2003, and playing poorly, Freddie Ljungberg revealed how it took a verbal bashing by the manager to get the team going in the second half, securing a victory and setting the tone for an unbeaten league season.

Which brings me onto the omen, or omens. With a halftime attack by the manager so few and far between, one can only hope it produces similar results come May, especially that this season has had us written off by many, as was the case back then.

And, having not beaten Liverpool in a league match at Anfield since the Invincibles campaign, also 2003-2004 incidentally, please allow me to share a few facts with you, comparing and contrasting back then to Sunday's victory. With the then-Liverpool boss Gerard Houllier under immense pressure, Harry Kewell had given the home side the perfect tonic, smashing in on the volley with barely a quarter of an hour gone. Eventually, we regrouped, with an equaliser bundled in off Sami Hyypia's shins for an own goal, before a piece of magic by Robért Píres, a twenty-five-yard screamer into the top corner silencing Anfield and settling the contest.

Now, forgive me for possibly reading too much into this, but, being quite the superstitious creature that I am, it is fascinating to note the parallels between then and now. For Houllier read Benitez, and with a lucky deflection putting us right back into things for both occasions, for Píres' bolt back then read Arshavin's stunner today.

Not to mention my earlier allusion to Liverpool's supremacy on home territory. Having not relinquished a lead at Anfield only to go on and lose a Premier League match in over seventy-odd contests before Sunday, who was the last man to consign them to defeat in such circumstances? You got it, the one and only Robért Píres.

Perhaps the writing is on the wall for when the prizes are being dished out in May.

Well, we can only dream, eh?