Bridget Gordon
Writer | Advocate
It was about dusk, one afternoon during the supreme madness of the preseason training, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been rewatching clips from the 2013-14 season when Liverpool almost won the title. By then I had already resigned from the club because somebody who shall remain nameless but whose name rhymes with Frendon Grodgers didn’t want to answer to a sporting director. How did Raheem Sterling work out for you that season? Pretty good, right? I mean it’s not like I WAS LARGELY RESPONSIBLE FOR HIS DEVELOPMENT. It’s fine. Really, it’s fine.
The man wore motley. He had on tight-fitting jeans, and his head was surmounted by a cowboy hat. (Seriously? You live in Boston, my dude. You’re not fooling anyone.) I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.