Your mama told you there'd be days like that. A double snooze of a morning, begrudging arithmetic in search of the absolute last second that you could stay in bed. The rage-drinking was transiently effective in expunging yet another disappointing result in Red, but the ill advised hate-pogoing to Leftover Crack left you with that sore ankle grating on sober nerves. No time to preen nor primp, so you confronted the too bright world (and that idiot United fan Tanner from the mailroom) with a bad hair day and a greasy forehead. Every reflection brought a cringe - that's not what it looks like, surely? Oh, but it was. You caught the double takes; noted exactly who had the nerve to ask if you're feeling alright and what does that even mean? Curse the damned fates, all of them.
But that was yesterday. Today we're just running a little low on the remonstrative energy and resigned to the week's lot. The hair's a little better, the face not as greasy. You even remembered that kale dish in the back of fridge, so you got that going for you, which is nice. Nowhere to look but up when you're at rock bottom. After all the rage, pain, and regret, it's time to try some healing. Some sexual healing.
That's right, sex. As a primary means of preserving one's species, it is exceptionally effective. As a band-aid for a frayed heart it knows exceedingly few equals. As a means of splitting through a packed defense within a 101 meter x 68 meter rectangular space, however, it is proof of the existence of Fowler.
Philippe Coutinho is a hot sex unicorn full of totes gorge skill. He drops a shoulder and swivels into a dribble as his targets cleave through and across the field, knowing any inch of space created looks like an acre to their visionary provider. He doesn't dribble so much as carefully smooth the ball's progress along the ground. Intricate deviations from obstacles and innate control over gravitational forces. Phil delivers from any position to any position with an intoxicating panache - what can Cou do for you? It's electric. All hail Sexinho.
But Sexinho's not alone of those in Red who get us hot just like an oven - enter Adam "The Llama" Lallana. Transfer fee, you say? Don't bother us with trifles. For when he runs a hand through that glorious expanse of divine grace we like to call hair - hnngmph - it's clear to us that he's worth every Red cent. And then he does the footy thing. Some people run their socks off during a football match. Lallana irresponsibly careens his body over and through collisions within a finite expanse of time and space. Draw him with a #2 pencil and dude still bleeds through the paper. He is the rare heartthrob who you notice for his substance long before you notice the exquisitely scruffy beard. In close quarters or acres of space? Right side or left side? Midfield or attack? Put the ball at his feet and the wind in his hair and #20 always seems to answer football's most difficult questions with a query of his own: "Por que no los dos?"
Why bring up Liverpool's #10 and #20 at a time like this? It's not only because those two numbers add up to #30 (all roads lead to Suso, Brendan). It is also because of these two words: Oldham Away. The last time things were this hopeless under Brendan Rodgers' leadership. Defensive issues, lack of rotation, incredulity at the level of opposition giving us trouble, a cry for change heard around the Red earth - sounds familiar, right? In that instance the balm came in January. Not only did Philippe Coutinho inspire arguably the greatest gif party TLO has ever seen when he signed for Liverpool, but his bouncy, thick curls arrived alongside a Studge. Our new mercurial wonders took us into their warm, wild embrace, and we were collectively reminded that tides can turn almost week to week in the beautiful game. So remember it now.
Por que no los dos? It's the answer we give to the question that seems to be ringing in the collective ear of Liverpool fans far and wide: what now? Los dos, of course. As in the two pieces of the puzzle in this squad that are experienced enough, talented enough, fit enough, and currently enjoying enough form to actually, really lead us forward. Yes, you can throw a wild Moreno in here, no you won't hear us complain if Hendycakes is on the menu, as well. Of course we would love us some out of the blue Dreem effervescence, or Lazar finally blazing his path. And you Can always, always find room for more Red Panda. But looking at what we have here, the combination that truly convinces are Phil and Adam. There are, of course, valid tactical bones to pick on how to exactly deploy the two (Phil central, for example, with Adam ahead of him as his rampaging muse). But dat first goal, do': beautiful layoff into beautiful movement, perfect touch, perfect chip, and Rickie gets his goal. Simple.
In practice, the combination of Philippe Coutinho's visionary passing and Adam Lallana's precision chaos has hitherto belied the full promise of this creative Redvolution. But that doesn't mean it's not coming. There is enough talent here to turn even the most iron-bellied of defenses into a flock of borborygmus pheasants, paralyzed with fear at the sound of an encroaching hunter's heel. There are goals, there are legs, there are hips, there are shots, there are teardrops, there are arching curlers, there are bamboozling flicks, there are one-touch symphonies. There. Is. Hair.