The road to godhood starting from Ligue 1

Chapter 343 Boot Room Tavern
6 month 16 number.

The Boot Room, Anfield Road, Liverpool, Merseyside, England.

The tavern owner, old George, skillfully mixed each glass of liquor.

Old George is a living fossil of the Shankly era, otherwise he wouldn't have named the tavern "The Boot Room".

The term "boot room" is no stranger to Liverpool's die-hard fans.

Even when talking about this, they would say that this is where Liverpool football truly originated.

The story begins with Liverpool legend Shankly.

On January 15, 1959, Liverpool were eliminated from the FA Cup by amateur team Sterling City.

Ten months later, Phil Taylor, having exhausted all other options, resigned.

As the saying goes, "Times create heroes," and a great Scotsman crossed the Pennine Mountains from Huddersfield to Anfield.

He is Bill Shankly.

After Shankly took over Liverpool, he moved into the manager's office, leaving an inconspicuous old room on the other side of the dressing room corridor to his assistants – Paisley and Bennett.

This is a small, square room with players' training boots hanging on the walls. The air is always filled with the smell of leather and earth, hence the name "Boot Room".

Initially, there wasn't even a chair here; the only seats were a few beer crates—which another assistant coach, Feigen, had gotten from local amateur team coach Orr.

Orr often brought his team to Anfield for physiotherapy, and in return, he would send cases of beer piled up in the corner of the boot room.

As an aside, Orr was elected mayor of Liverpool in 1977.

From then on, the little house took on a different kind of vitality.

After the game, visiting team coaches are often invited over for a drink, and the club's old buddies also love to gather here to review the game over drinks.

But Shankly rarely set foot here.

Perhaps out of the head coach's reserve, he left this space entirely to his assistants.

Unexpectedly, the casual conversations over the beer crates gradually turned into tactical discussions, and the walls covered with football boots began to be filled with tactical sketches.

As people walk down the corridor, they can always hear the "pop" of a beer being opened, mixed with heated discussions.

Unbeknownst to many, the boot room had become the central hub of the coaching team.

Fagan was the first person to meticulously record the key points of daily training.

Gradually, everyone developed this habit—weather data, injury reports, player status, and even the impact of cleat wear on performance were all recorded.

If a player exhibits abnormal behavior during training, the coaching staff will review the accumulated records to look for similar cases.

Sometimes the problem is simple: a new pair of shoes can solve it; other times it involves tactical adjustments or medical intervention.

And so, witnessed by cans of beer and walls covered with football boots, Liverpool embarked on their fervent pursuit of football details.

This small house eventually became the most mysterious cradle of wisdom for the Red Army dynasty.

It ushered in the legendary Shankly era!

The physical Boots Room has long since disappeared, but its spirit remains in Anfield.

The Boot Room is not just a room, but a belief and bond built by a group of people over a century.

Old George carried the mixed liquor to each customer.

These customers are all regulars and die-hard Liverpool fans.

The pub was bustling with people.

The TV was replaying Gaio's highlights from Bastia, and the air was filled with the smell of beer and fries.

Liverpool broke their club record by signing Gaio, which amazed everyone, who wondered just what kind of player he was.

Sean, a grumpy taxi driver in his forties, gulped down a beer and slammed his glass on the table. "Fenway Sports Group can't handle this £7 million from the Saudis! Fine, money's better than the Hodgson era! But don't turn us into another Chelsea! Although, damn it, this money is really satisfying!"

Meanwhile, his friend, Mick, a construction worker in his thirties, waved his arms excitedly, almost knocking over his glass. "Sean, do you still want to see Downing and Joe Allen's 'dream' connection for free? We finished 7th last season! 7th! We need a revolution! Look at this kid!"

Mick pointed at the TV, "His sprints make Glen Johnson look like he's taking a stroll! Think about it, Suarez, okay, even though he just bit Ivanovic and is suspended, but when he comes back, there's Sturridge, plus Gaio! This attacking line is beautiful!"

Liz, who was standing next to Mick and a high school teacher, pushed up her glasses and said, "Mick, don't be so optimistic. Gaio is only 18 years old. A weekly salary of $30 will cause an uproar in the locker room, mathematically speaking."

What does Gerrard think?
And don't forget he comes from Ligue 1, not the Premier League.

Adam Morgan was also a promising young man, but did we give him a chance?

Are we once again making a costly gamble with a child?

Like Carroll a couple of years ago?

On the other side, someone exclaimed, "My God, Carol?!"

Ms. Liz, don't mention Carol!
How many times did Joe Allen concede the ball per game on average last season?

How many times did Downing's crosses fly into the second row of the stands?
What we need is a player like Gaio! He can create his own space and score on his own!
Rodgers' high-pressing tactics need a striker like him! Suarez might be suspended, we need him!

Old George understood their conversation. After placing glasses of wine on their table, he said, "Kids, I've been through Shankly, Heysel, Hodgson, and the Blood Brothers. What I'm saying is, money isn't the original sin; arrogance and stupidity are."

His gaze swept across the television screen, capturing Gaio's impressive performance.

“This kid has a fierce streak. I saw it when Torres first came. He was earning 30 a week. As long as he gives his all for the bird badge in every game and creates goals for the team, I’ll consider him one of my own. Because what we need now is someone who can change the game, not another ‘diligent’ Henderson!”

Hearing what old George said.

Sean snorted, but his tone softened a bit. "Henderson isn't bad either; at least he's active on the field. Well, hopefully you're right, George."

But let me tell you, if he gets knocked to pieces by Shawcross or gets soaked to the bone in the rain during his Premier League debut against Stoke City on August 16th, I'll be the first person to yell at him on the radio!

Someone muttered, "But he has to be able to play. What if Rodgers doesn't use him? I heard Rodgers is very unhappy about putting a player like him who doesn't track back on defense into the team. Maybe he feels that his authority has been offended."

Mick laughed and slapped Sean on the back. "You guys will shut up, Sean! I bet he'll score on his debut! For the new owner! For Gaio! For never again seeing Downing's crosses go wide! Cheers!"

Everyone laughed and raised their pint glasses to clink, splashing wine everywhere.

"YNWA!"

Liz smiled and shook her head, raising her glass. "Alright, you optimistic lunatics."

Old George returned to the bar and slowly wiped the countertop with a cloth.

His gaze seemed to pierce through the lingering aroma of wine, glimpsing the ebb and flow of distant times.

A complex smile played on his lips, a smile that had been etched into his face over the years, a smile that was a mixture of pride and pain.

He was the one who watched Shankly lead the Reds to conquer England, and the one who witnessed the team's sudden fall from the top of Europe.

Those seven years, the ban on English teams from European competitions personally promised by Margaret Thatcher, are like ice etched into his bones; even now, the thought of it makes his knuckles turn white. He remembers it all too clearly: the year before the Heysel Stadium disaster, English teams had just declared their undisputed dominance to the world by sweeping all three major European cups.

From 1977 to 1984, seven European Cup trophies in eight years – England at that time was the undisputed king of European football.

However, everything came to an abrupt end after the tragedy.

Then-Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, in a gesture of "high moral character," urged the Football Association to have all professional teams "voluntarily" withdraw from European competitions as a sign of deep reflection.

then,

For five whole years, English clubs and the Three Lions have been absent from all European competitions.

Liverpool were even banned for seven years, and their golden era turned from prosperity to decline under such external blows.

The same fate befell their city rivals Everton, and English football as a whole.

Margaret Thatcher's relationship with English football, especially with the city of Liverpool, is enough to fill a thick book.

Sir Alex Ferguson was one of the coaches who openly opposed her.

Two months ago, all these echoes of history converged into a breathtaking farewell that was distinctly Liverpool.

On April 13th of this year, at Reading's Middlesbrough Stadium, Liverpool fans who had traveled with the team showed no signs of frustration despite their team being held to a draw by bottom-ranked Reading.

Instead, they waved flags and sang songs, celebrating the death of a woman in an almost carnival-like manner.

Just five days before that match, Margaret Thatcher, Britain's first female prime minister and the politician most hated by Liverpool fans, died of a stroke at the age of 87.

For this,

The Premier League's handling of the situation was extremely subtle – for the first time ever, they did not organize a unified national moment of silence for this figure who occupies an extremely important place in British history, but instead stated in a rather "democratic" manner: "This is a matter for each club, and we will not interfere."

Old George paused slightly as he wiped the glass.

His cloudy gaze seemed to pierce through the lingering aroma of alcohol, and once again he heard that distant and complex song faintly echoing in the tavern.

Thatcher is gone, but Liverpool's lost golden era will never return.

What about now?
Liverpool has changed hands again, with the new owners spending a record €80 million to bet on an 18-year-old boy – Jan Gaio.

What kind of era will this usher in?
Is it the dawn of revival, or just another bubble-like frenzy?
No one can say for sure.

While George certainly hopes Liverpool will continue to improve, he also understands that some things cannot be forced.

Over the years, he has witnessed Shankly's iron-fisted rule, experienced Heysel's darkest hour, and weathered the confusion of the Hodgson era.

So many people coming and going.

He had long since learned to remain silent amidst the noise and to maintain his composure amidst the frenzy.

I just hope that this time, the ending won't be too bad.

Old George polished the bar until it gleamed, and the surface reflected his calm, unwavering eyes, which held the tranquility of Anfield's dawns and dusks and the serenity that comes with the passage of time.

Suddenly,
The tavern door was pushed open with a bang, ringing the brass bell behind it.

A tall man, wearing an old Liverpool jacket and with ruddy cheeks, strode in, bringing with him the cool air of the outdoors and undisguised excitement.

"Hey! Old George! Bring your most loyal customer a shot of the strongest liquor!" The man was Jamie Callahan, the head of the famous "Shankly Spirit" fan club in Merseyside, whose loud voice could drown out the noise in the pub.

Old George didn't even look up, but a smile crept onto his lips as he expertly poured a pint of bitter beer and pushed it over.

"Jamie, does that sound like you found Gerrard's lost shoes?"

Jamie took the glass and gulped down a shot, foam covering his stubble. He slammed his hand on the bar, making several empty glasses clink together. "A million times better than that, George! I just got back from the club and heard some amazing news!"

The entire tavern fell silent instantly, and even the volume of Gaio's highlight reel on TV seemed to be turned down.

All eyes were on Jamie.

Sean frowned: "Stop keeping me in suspense, Jamie, does it mean Suarez isn't leaving?"

Mick's eyes lit up: "Is the new boss going to buy more people?"

Jamie Callahan savored the moment in the spotlight. He took another large gulp of his drink, surveyed the room, and deliberately lowered his voice, making every word crystal clear:
"Listen up, guys, one week from now, next Saturday, Anfield."

He paused for a moment, letting the suspense build up.

"The club is going to throw a big welcome ceremony for our new kid, Jan Gaio! Not a perfunctory pre-match appearance, but a real 'welcome to Anfield' that's just for him!"

The tavern erupted in chaos.

"A separate ceremony?!" Liz pushed up her glasses in surprise. "The club hasn't gone to such lengths for any new signing in years!"

"That's awesome!" Mick jumped up, slamming his fist into the air. "This is the kind of 'face' we should have! Tell that kid he's the chosen one here!"

Sean snorted, but his eyes gleamed: "Hmph, I hope it's not all bark and no bite. I hope he doesn't end up like Carroll, so nervous in front of the Kop that he couldn't even stop the ball."

Mick was already excitedly searching for information: "Is there official news? Will there be a performance? What will the KOP prepare? We need new banners!"

Jamie Callahan smiled smugly, raising his voice again: "The official announcement will be released tomorrow!"

But I heard the club plans to give him a solo appearance in front of the Kop, where he'll receive a standing ovation. They'll play highlights of his time in Bastia, and might even invite Shankly's family, symbolizing the passing of the torch. This isn't just a show, guys, it's a signal—the signal of a new dynasty beginning!

He looked at old George: "George, you must come! Bring your best wine, we need all our blessings!"

Old George finally stopped wiping the cups. He looked up, and in the dim light, a hint of ripples and warm anticipation appeared in his eyes, which had seen too many storms.

He nodded slowly.

“Good.” Old George’s voice was steady and powerful. “For Liverpool, for that kid, and for Shankly.”

Cheers and clinking glasses erupted in the tavern once again.

At this moment, Gaio's name and Anfield's future were inextricably linked by this sudden expectation.

The news spread like wildfire.

Most Liverpool fans know that Anfield will officially welcome their new number 10.

Everyone is talking about that name—Jan Gaio—and that record-breaking 8000 million euros.

A restless energy, a mixture of ecstasy and unease, permeated the air in Merseyside.

Of course,
Most people still hold the mindset that they've already spent the money and hope that Gaio will do well.

after all--

"What if, what if he really is the chosen one? What if he can lead us into a new era, just like Dalglish?"

(End of this chapter)