There has been a weird kind of voodoo about the current run. City have barely stuttered. They’ve also kept on winning, burying the pain of Madrid, playing like champions. Players have begun to break and fall away. The games have become frantic. But that gleaming set of teeth is still there in the rear-view mirror.
James Milner, who played half a game in the middle and half a game on the right, touched the ball more than anyone else on the pitch, and spent the 90 minutes cajoling his teammates over the line like a long-suffering dad on a cross-country hike.
St Mary’s is one of the more hospitable away grounds at the best of times. Before kickoff a marching band tootled away through the rain outside the stadium. No flares were thrown. No baying crowd greeted the team buses. Inside the atmosphere brought to mind a fond early summer village fete. Whereas for Liverpool this was jeopardy, destiny, the edge of things.
Milner has a timeless look to him these days. He doesn’t really run. He stalks. He doesn’t caress the ball, or thread it, or glide it. He clumps it. He kicks it like a man dishing out a fond, correctional repunishment, the kind of licks the ball will thank him for when it’s old enough. And through all this he looks oddly indestructible, an athlete made from some untiring super-substance – ancient Roman leather, whalebone and buffalo hide. ...
With 58 minutes gone he was up there jinking and feinting on the wing, dummying Redmond like a teenager. This is the kind of leader-by-default every organisation craves, asking nothing, screwing the joints into place, the wookie in the engine room, bolting this thing together on the hoof, banging the circuit boards.
excerpted from Milner’s command performance keeps Liverpool in fight for title
The Guardian, May 17, 2022
