Rebuilding the Liverpool mosaic: Brendan Rodgers on the brink
By Matthew Dunne-Miles
It’s early August and Brendan Rodgers stands outside the Anfield locker room. Nervously he grabs the door handle, takes a deep breath and opens it with trepidation, ready to dazzle the team with some Socrates in order to prepare them for a season without European football.
As the door creaks open and he steps inside, a tumbleweed slowly rolls past his feet; there is deafening silence occasionally disrupted by the drip, drip, drip of a loose shower faucet somewhere in the distance.
'Is…is anybody there?' Rodgers enquires, his accent, concocted from bits of Sean Connery, Gerry Adams and the Go Compare man, echoes off the changing room walls.
He makes his way over to Jamie Carragher’s empty locker through a sea of dry ice, whilst vibrato guitar begins to play in the background. Rodgers presses his hands and face against the cold steel door and closes his eyes.
'Et tu Carra?' he whispers before looking down and spotting a note addressed to ‘The Gaffer’ on the bench below. He carefully unfolds it, reads the words he never wished to see and puts his head in his hands as the note drops into the mist below in slow motion.
'To Brendan, we've left. Sincerely, all your talent'