This Sunday a Premier League and England legend bids farewell to English football before departing for the US, and every single one of you reading this is assuming that I’m referring to Steven Gerrard. Of course you are. Why would you not? These past couple of weeks has seen a level of lachrymose tributes and raw outpouring of emotion not witnessed since Diana said “Why is Philip driving that white Fiat Uno?”
Whether you like him or not, rate him or not – and at least half of us regard Liverpool’s number 8 as little more than a very decent midfielder partial to the spectacular whose talents are woefully over-inflated by the media – we’ve all been coerced into a prolonged Stevie Me farewell tour, a lavish welter of sentimentality and tears for a player who will probably return in six months on loan.
Meanwhile, 45 miles from the cloying love-fest at the Brittania in Stoke a player nicknamed ‘Super’ will walk off the Etihad turf to appreciative applause and respond in kind. The send off will be classy, under-stated and thoroughly English.
In two decades as a prowling, scheming great for West Ham, Chelsea and Manchester City Frank Lampard has scored over 200 goals and won everything there is to win in the game not to mention snagging 106 England caps into the bargain. His accomplishments are unparalleled save for United’s Class of 92. He has been an exceptional servant to the game, eschewing scandal for consistent excellence and slip-ups for title winning strikes. Since the late nineties he has offered silver service to Gerrard’s Maccie Ds.
Yet in their respective careers that have mirrored on another’s in many ways it is Lampard who has forever been cast in the long shadow of Gerrard’s legend. Shuffled around in the England set-up to accommodate his peer and almost taken for granted perhaps it is fitting that he is presently receiving a tenth of the plaudits and back pages being afforded to Stevie la. Because it was ever so.
Why is this? In part it’s due to his scene-stealing rival being a far more rumbustious, all-action type of player. No matter how much we covet continental technique in this country our default love will always be for someone who rolls up their sleeves and transfers Sunday League passion to a Premier League pitch. It’s why Lee Cattermole isn’t doing his rightful job as a bouncer at an under 18s disco. It’s why we haven’t won sweet fa for donkeys years.
Secondly, it is beyond dispute that Liverpool supporters do sentiment and mythology better than anyone. From managers to comebacks to long-serving centre mids they create folklores the rest of us have little choice but to endure. This was bad enough when the red half of Merseyside were an all-conquering domineering force. Now, in the vacuum once stuffed to the brim with silverware, is the over-compensation of pride in themselves and their club. The toe-curling, over-blown send-off to their captain is simply another example of this.
The curtain call on the 2014/15 season sees the departure of two bona fide greats of the domestic game, one to a Galaxy far, far away with the other heading to a city that never sleeps.
Both are undoubtedly deserving of our respect and best wishes yet Lampard’s leaving amounts to a brisk wave goodbye in comparison to the orchestra of heartstrings plucked for Gerrard’s farewell. One is given a carriage clock to thank him on his way. The other a national holiday.
I can’t help thinking we’ve got it the wrong way around.
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