By Amy Eustace
There came a point at the beginning of last year when you simply knew it was coming. Perhaps it was the infamous Roy Hodgson face rub – a sure sign that man had reached his last bastion of pure desperation – the previous December, or the penalty that Steven Gerrard sent soaring uncharacteristically over the bar against Blackburn the same month. We all sensed Roy Hodgson was a dead man walking, and the Kop didn’t need to chant “Hodgson out!” to stress the point.
More cruelly, they sang the name of another; a player whose sublime touch and silky footwork had led the Kop in song throughout the 1980s and a manager whose reign at the club had been the very antithesis of Liverpool’s past decade or two. Bountiful where the nineties and noughties had been barren, magical where the club had since been miserable - fans who had long forgotten how dominance felt craved a return to his tenure. Kenny Dalglish’s was a name synonymous with success in Liverpool. Roy Hodgson’s had become a buzz word for failure.