by Mikey Foley (TTT Subscriber ConradHart).

I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t eat. My stomach feels like there’s a couple of squirrels in there fighting over the world’s last monkey nut. My wife is sick to death of me jabbering on about tables, three points and a magic wand belonging to some Brazilian fellow who lives in the middle of a park.

I used to be able to watch a game and appreciate the skill on show. Right up until the point where the shot left the opposing player’s boot and I’d gasp until the safe hands of a Belgian would appear out of nowhere and swat it to safety. Now I’m a quivering bag of nerves whenever we haven’t got the ball. For the previous thirty games of the season the sane part of my brain was telling me they had eleven red shirts to get past so nothing to worry about. Now the insane part of my brain is screaming “they’re gonna score, they’re gonna bloody score” even though they’re 100 yards from goal doing their best Carlton Palmer impression.

What have you done to me Brendan? I’m not sure my heart can take it. I’ve never experienced so much sustained stress watching the game I love. Well, not since the late 80s and I was a bullet-proof youngling back then, impervious to the realities of being so near yet so far because Liverpool were never “so far” back then. Now it means so much more because we haven’t had it in so long. Rafa gave me a taste of it back in 2005 and 2007 but that was like a jolt from a cattle prod compared to this long, drawn out stint in the electric chair.

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