Like many Liverpool fans living abroad, my opportunities to see The Reds are few and far between. So naturally, the one time Liverpool ever have—or perhaps ever will—come to my sleepy little Danish town of Herning, it was behind closed doors during the forgettable (and largely forgotten) COVID season in 2020-21.
This was FCM’s first, and to date only, qualification for the Champions League. And of course my hometown club was destined to meet my favorite club.
It was a bittersweet moment, seeing Liverpool
and FC Midtjylland’s names getting drawn against each other in group play, knowing that Jurgen Klopp et. al would be in my backyard, and no one—including myself—would be able to watch it. Likewise, I also wouldn’t get to experience the joy of seeing a Scouse invasion of our town and pubs.
I still feel like I missed out on the experience of seeing Liverpool fans flooding the streets of Herning. That’s a fun experience no matter which club comes to town in European competitions. Herning barely clears the 50,000 population mark, so even a few hundred traveling fans can really liven up the place. I’m sure an Scouse invassion would have been epic.
Regardless, as fate—and a fateful connection—would have it, I wouldn’t be missing out on attending the match after all. My wife and I were conscripted to help the club out with some pre-match and halftime work, and then we could grab a seat in the stands to watch the match.
Despite the fact that it was a dead rubber, with Liverpool already qualifying for the next round, and FCM already elimated, I was still thrilled to have the opportunity to attend.
It was a surreal experience.
It felt more like watching a Sunday league match than a Champions League match. Obviously the talent on display was much, much higher, but the vibes were even more unnerving in person than on TV. You could hear every single player on the pitch, as well as Jurgen Klopp’s booming voice echoing through the cavernous, empty stadium.
During the match, Liverpool players warmed up right in front of me. Literally, a few rows away, there was Jordan Henderson and Joel Matip cracking jokes with each other and stretching. And a bit later, Bobby Firmino, Sadio Mane, and Andy Robertson were doing the same. It was actually distracting from the match, but in a fun way, like I could be a fly on the wall for what are typically behind the scenes moments.
But that wasn’t my favorite moment of the match. Nor was it my favorite Andy Robertson moment.
That moment came in the second half, after Robertson came on as a sub for Kostas Tsimikas.
For context, FC Midtjylland equalized—negating Salah’s first minute goal—almost immediately after Robertson and Henderson came on. During the VAR review, Kloppo shouted to the refs, and literally anyone else who could hear in the stadium (which was everyone), “COME ON, IT IS CLEAR THAT IS OFFSIDE!” VAR…disagreed.
Although neither Henderson nor Robertson were at fault for the goal, both played like they had something to prove. And, keep in mind, the result of this match did not matter whatsoever. At one point Henderson made a gut-busting sprint to get back in time to stop an FCM attack, which was even more impressive live than on the replays I later saw on TV.
Meanwhile, Robertson had gone to war with the opposition winger on his side, FCM academy player Gustav Isaksen, who has since gone on to be a regular starter for Serie A side Lazio.
During one of their many battles, Isaksen won the ball off Robbo right in front of me. It was one of those typical 50/50 challenges that could’ve been given as a foul, but just as often aren’t. Regardless, FCM won back possession, and went on the attack. The next time the ball went out play a few moments later, Robertson ran straight back over to the assistant referee on my side, getting inches from his face—so much for social distancing—and screaming, “THAT WAS A FUCKING FOUL!”
I had to suppress my laughter. And I was glad to be wearing a mask, not just as the legal and socially responsible thing to do, but also simply to hide my expression.
It was a ridiculous moment, in a meaningless game, in an otherwise mostly forgettable season. And I simply love that memory. You have to be psychotically competitive in order to reach the heights that Roberston reached in his career. And boy, did he ever show how psychotically competitive he is in that moment.
Like many beloved Liverpool players in the past, we love Robbo not just for his competitiveness, but also his relentless running and hardwork. In Robbo, we saw “one of us,” on the pitch; someone relateable, and how we’d like to think we would be if we were ever anywhere near talented enough to be a Liverpool player.
Hardworking fan favorites can be labled as cult heroes, but Robertson was never that. He paired his seemingly endless workrate with pace, a killer cross, and a footballing brain that was always tuned-in. At his peak, he was in the conversation for being the best left back in the world, and will rightly be remembered as one of the best left backs of all time for Liverpool.
And I’ll always remember him for giving a piece of his mind to a lino in an empty stadium, over a fairly innocuous challenge, in a match that didn’t matter.
What a fucking legend.
