Anfield awaits.
Three games remain, the final act of a season that has flirted with every emotion. One that has soared and stumbled, thrilled under floodlights and wept in heartbreak. And now, to the place where dreams go to die — to Liverpool, to Anfield.
When the fixture list first emerged from its chrysalis, we scanned for omens. We hoped, perhaps naïvely, that the decisive points would be won and lost here.
And so here it is. Anfield in May. A ground steeped in defiance. And yet, how peculiar the mood. For Liverpool, champions with games to spare, it borders on a dead rubber. But for us, there is everything still to fight for. Second place — once secure, now slippery. The points have slipped through fingers in recent weeks, and the challenge of holding firm intensifies.
And then, from the most unlikely quarter — Southampton, bruised and broken — emerge a flicker of generosity, taking a point from City. A point that tempers the fire just slightly, but not enough to cool the furnace that awaits tomorrow.
Liverpool, refreshed, restored, and ready. They rotated last week — a rare kindness to Chelsea, whose Champions League hopes have been kissed by fortune. And yes, one wonders — in hushed corners and pub whispers — what the other contenders made of that rotation. Did the stars align? Or did they merely glance the familiar glow of favour?
Of course, this is not a critique. Liverpool earned their right to rest, to revel. Champions, again, and deservedly so. But fate, ever mischievous, chose Chelsea as the benefactor. Palmer dazzled at The Bridge — and the commentators, oh how they swooned.
But I digress.
A Rivalry Rekindled, if Only in Atmosphere
Today. Today is everything.
Because Anfield does not forgive. It demands. It consumes. And if we are to leave with hope still flickering, we must go as warriors, not worriers. With eyes wide, hearts full, and minds clear. The cavalry returns. The crowd will swell. And in that cauldron of crimson and chorus, our resolve must burn brighter than ever.
Three games to go. No more room for fragility. No margin for regret. The stage is set, the stakes are still high.
And now, for Arsenal… a task of substance. A task of heart. A task of healing.
There is a job to do — a very real, very raw job to do. Not just to outthink, outplay, outfight a Liverpool side who will be rested and reloaded. But to rise. To rise from the ruins of Paris. To gather the shards of a shattered European dream and stitch them, somehow, into a final flourish.
There were tears on Wednesday night — of course there were. How could there not be? In that dressing room, hearts lay heavy. A season’s worth of belief undone in a moment. And yet… still, there is more to write.
This cannot be the ending.
Let it not be the memory that defines us. Let it not be the night that writes the epitaph. Yes, we remember — we must remember. But let that pain fuel us. Let it burn in the belly and sharpen the edge. The business of the Premier League resumes — and the business is unfinished.
Beyond Paris: Turning Pain into Purpose
We understand the squad is unchanged. The same bodies. The same bruises. The same belief — we hope. Perhaps a tweak at fullback, perhaps a shuffle through the middle. But it is, more or less, the same cast summoned to deliver the next act of this dramatic play.
Liverpool will bring their own power: the returning trio of MacAllister, Gravenberch, and Dominik Szoboszlai. But we have warriors of our own. And we wait to see whether Thomas Partey, chastened by PSG, is offered redemption.
He was meant to be the difference, wasn’t he? The general. The one who missed the first leg, but returned to marshall the second. Instead — in one cruel moment — it was his misstep that proved fatal. And while he was not alone in his struggle, his name will be murmured with regret.
And then there’s Myles Lewis-Skelly.
The boy. The brave one. The midfield maestro playing at left-back. Only 18. Still learning — learning, quite literally, at the pinnacle of the game. Deep in the Champions League. High in the Premier League. It is a firestorm in which even the brightest talent can flicker. And though he has shown courage beyond his years, one wonders… might it be time to shelter the flame, if only briefly?
His confidence is defiant. His energy, irrepressible. And yet, for all that spirit, football is cruel. A dubious penalty at Goodison. A rescinded red. Moments that cloud a young man’s rise. Naïve, they say — but isn’t that the price of learning under the harshest spotlight of them all?
Perhaps tomorrow, Arteta will choose to spare him the cauldron. Or perhaps, in true Myles fashion, he will be there — sleeves rolled, chin high, daring Anfield to come at him.
Elsewhere, the team will be tested. Not just in legs, but in hearts. The mental fatigue, the emotional damage— all will be monitored. But this, make no mistake, will be close to full-strength Arsenal. Because it must be.
Liverpool will come full force. So must we.
The wounds are fresh. The pain is real. But the fight… the fight is not yet over.
And so, we arrive at Sunday. The week’s full stop. The Premier League’s parting word — for now. Two of England’s oldest titans will meet again.
What to expect? Chaos, perhaps. Colour, certainly. Noise, without doubt.
Liverpool — fast, furious, formidable. A team crowned already, but never coasting. Arsenal — hurting, healing, hoping. A team searching for a final flourish, for the dignity of a defiant end.
There is a tension that lingers between these two. A rivalry that simmers, if not boils. Not born from hatred, but from history. From battles fought not in the shadows, but under the brightest of lights. Perhaps social media has fanned the flames — as it so often does — but beneath it all, there is respect. Fierce, proud, begrudging respect.
The Guard of Honour: A Gesture of Grace, Not Defeat
Tomorrow, it will not be war. It may, in fact, feel like a celebration for those in Liverpool red. And yes — there will be a Guard of Honour.
Rightly so.
Because football, even in its bitterness, must retain its beauty. Its values. Its grace. And Arsenal — whatever is said of them — are a club that still does things the right way. And so, they will applaud the champions. Because to honour the moment is not to surrender to it. It is to recognise greatness, and then rise again to challenge it.
Arteta, former Blue of course, has had his run-ins with Liverpool, with Jurgen Klopp no less. Two minds, two spirits, two flames on the touchline. They clashed in pantomime. Tomorrow, perhaps, with Arne Slot a calmer curtain call. A nod. A handshake. One building a dynasty, the other chasing its promise.
And around it all: the other games, the other plots. City stumble. Chelsea and Newcastle face off in their dangerous duet. Villa a very handy 3 points on the South coast. There is a Champions League chase still galloping towards the finish line. And Arsenal — down but not out — still have their say.
What remains is to play the game. To finish the season with something resembling pride. To not let Paris be the full stop. But instead, a comma. A pause. Before going again.
And yes — as the sun shines over the UK, with barbecues lit and beers cooling in fridges across the land — we’ll gather again, as we always do. We’ll hope. We’ll cheer. We’ll feel.
Because it’s May. And it’s football. And anything can happen.
Let it be beautiful.
Let it be brave.
Just don’t let it be forgettable.
Victoria Concordia Crescit