Fic: The First Half
Title: The First Half
Pairing: Daniel Agger/Martin Škrtel, Martin Škrtel/Tim Cahill, and a hint of Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: True in the land of imagination only.
Summary: During the first of the two Merseyside derbies
A/Ns: My take on the match, all opinions here are my own. Sorry to include Tim Cahill, I know it's probably the last thing I should do, but he wouldn't go away.
Word Count: 1473
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated! Good/bad, either is fine. Thanks!
The First Half
They had a brief conversation on the phone before the match. He knew he only made the team sheet because Daniel was still recovering from his calf injury. Again, he felt the inadequacy of being held second to the Danish international. After all, he was only brought in because Agger was injured, and now he’s only playing because Dan was injured. He had felt immeasurably tired after his first full match last week and he knew the pressure was on for this derby - not just because it’s a Merseyside Derby which always held more importance than any other league match, but also because this was their opportunity to knock United back down to second, if only while they haven’t played their game in hand. So Martin was understandably more nervous than usual for a Liverpool match.
Daniel Agger twisted the phone cord around his fingers as he listened to Martin’s quiet voice. He could guess at the anxiety the Slovakian was feeling. It never went away, no matter how many derbies you were involved it, it always has that little bit of extra oomph to the match, to the whole situation. Add chasing United to the mix and that’s one potent fixture waiting to happen. Keeping it simple, he interrupted Martin to say, “Play your heart out, Škrtel, because I’ll be back.” Then he replaced the phone knowing that his words will be what Martin will carry onto the pitch in a few hours time and that they will be the driving force of a good performance against their mortal enemies.
The Anfield crowd was roaring. Two derbies in the space of a week and it was finally upon them, the first of the two fixtures. The anticipation and impatience was palpable. Two halves of one city united yet opposed in a clash of brilliant blue and red.
The ninety minutes began to tick down and the ball was passed around a wet pitch with point and purpose. Feet pounded into to grass and bodies shifted this way and that as each side began their attack and attempted to defend. Blue and Red weaved between each other, into each other and only the whistle of the referee ruled here.
As usual, Xabi Alonso sat deep and dictated play, his arms flying out at awkward angles as he placed the ball at his team mates’ feet, yards down the pitch. Stevie roamed with purpose, Torres skipped between the blue defenders, his short blonde hair plastered to his face in the rain.
Martin Škrtel smiled wryly as the ref pulled the play back due to his foul. Spreading his hands wide, he grinned as if to say, “What did I do?” Bowing to the ref’s decision, he backed off but he wasn’t happy. Perhaps, he needn’t have pushed, but football can get scrappy at times and he was only reacting.
When Tim Cahill shoved him roughly as he was shielding a ball, his temper boiled over. He had crashed into one of the guards lying in the sidelines and had almost lost his footing. He rounded back on the Australian, his lips pulled back into a typical snarl, heated wrath burning within his throat. The ref was quick to come over and mediate a peaceful truce. The two men shook hands half-heartedly, all smiles for the cameras, but Martin couldn’t let it rest.
Perhaps it was the coldness of his wet jersey that startled him when Tim Cahill’s hand had pressed onto his side, or maybe it was the warmth that even the wetness of his shirt could not mask. The feel of the midfielder’s hand against his body, even when accompanied by the force exerted, made him feel uncomfortable. It was that, more so than the underhanded behaviour that ate at him. And when they had shaken hands, the same unsettling feeling came over him. Looking at the Australian, he saw the same confused wariness mirrored in Cahill’s eyes. They turned and walked in opposite directions, blatantly ignoring each other.
The score was still goalless, something that grated both teams as they needed to be one up on the other to feel satisfied. The ball spun out and sent Victor Anichebe running towards Pepe with only Xabi Alonso and Martin Škrtel for company. He disposed of Xabi with a hefty shove and while the red half flailed unsuccessfully at the referee for a foul, Škrtel and Anichebe continued towards the goal mouth. A bit of a tussle and Anichebe went down. Martin threw his hands up in disgust and innocence and this time it was the Evertonian half that bayed for a penalty which didn’t come.
Had Steven Gerrard worried for Xabi, no one will ever know. For even before the spectators had collected themselves from the drama of Škrtel vs Anichebe, did the Liverpool Captain receive a pass and drilled it into the opposite net. The deadlock was broken and Steven, born and bred Scouse, celebrated with exalted joy, his arms flung wide, sliding down on the wet surface. It was his 250th match for Liverpool and scoring against bitter rivals, Everton, was the perfect way to mark that milestone. Xabi, however, felt the pride burn within him, threatening to explode from his mortal body. He loved it when Stevie scored, because it always meant so much to his captain. But a part of him felt resigned that yet again, it was up to Gerrard to win the match. Liverpool should not have to rely on him so much but they had played nearly 70 minutes without anything to show for it despite having both Fernando and Keane up front. El Niño was only recently back from injury so maybe he should be forgiven. But it was starting to irritate that Liverpool, again, needed ‘Gerrard the Saviour’ and the fact that, despite this being a Merseyside derby, Liverpool did not play with the same gusto, heart and belief as they normally do. Added to that, this was at Anfield. The image of Anfield being a fortress was crumbling.
A tired Torres is taken off and within a minute, Benayoun gives away a free kick in a dangerous position. It wasn’t necessary, but the foul was committed so Arteta stood over the ball. Everton had four minutes to find an equaliser. With blue and red gathering within the box, the whistle blew to allow the free kick to be taken. Scrambling ensued and they had their equaliser. Amidst the many bodies, Tim Cahill snuck out, unmarked to head the ball into the net past a hapless Pepe.
As Everton cheered and whooped, Martin Škrtel glared at the back of the Aussie goal-scorer’s head. He had thought perhaps they could have had dealings after the match. Maybe it would have been okay, more than okay. He was sure it would have been welcomed, but now, there was no way. With that one goal, Tim Cahill destroyed any chance of a relationship before it even started. There would be no love between the two men of opposing sides. There had been no love between them, ever. Just a whisper of a possibility and now there was no way they were going to be caught fraternising with the enemy.
Four minutes was up; injury time now. Seconds ticking down and that was it. The first ninety minutes of the Merseyside clashes of the week had resulted in a draw and a point apiece. Martin watched Steven and Xabi walk together down the tunnel with envy. His mind drifted back to the goal they conceded; whose fault had it been? Could it have been his? He was, after all, behind Sami and the scene blurred in his mind even as he grasped at it, trying to analyse what happened. He supposed Rafa would call them in to watch what happened later on anyway, so he’ll be reminded of it and told what should have been done. Right now, he just wanted someone to walk beside, like Xabi and Steven were, someone to say that it’s all right, that it wasn’t his fault, because he really feared that it was.
He couldn’t walk alongside Tim Cahill, as he had intended to, initially. The idea of the Australian now sent prickles down his spine as he raged silently over the two dropped points. Stepping into the change-rooms, he stripped off his wet jersey and tossed it aside in frustration. He ran his hands over his head, trying to forget that match, his eyes closed.
A small jingle told him his phone was buzzing away; an incoming call was waiting to be picked up. He pressed the green button on his phone and held it up to his ear. The ‘private’ number did not fool him.
As Daniel’s voice came soothingly over the line, Martin finally breathed out with ease. Someone understood.
Pairing: Daniel Agger/Martin Škrtel, Martin Škrtel/Tim Cahill, and a hint of Steven Gerrard/Xabi Alonso
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: True in the land of imagination only.
Summary: During the first of the two Merseyside derbies
A/Ns: My take on the match, all opinions here are my own. Sorry to include Tim Cahill, I know it's probably the last thing I should do, but he wouldn't go away.
Word Count: 1473
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated! Good/bad, either is fine. Thanks!
The First Half
They had a brief conversation on the phone before the match. He knew he only made the team sheet because Daniel was still recovering from his calf injury. Again, he felt the inadequacy of being held second to the Danish international. After all, he was only brought in because Agger was injured, and now he’s only playing because Dan was injured. He had felt immeasurably tired after his first full match last week and he knew the pressure was on for this derby - not just because it’s a Merseyside Derby which always held more importance than any other league match, but also because this was their opportunity to knock United back down to second, if only while they haven’t played their game in hand. So Martin was understandably more nervous than usual for a Liverpool match.
Daniel Agger twisted the phone cord around his fingers as he listened to Martin’s quiet voice. He could guess at the anxiety the Slovakian was feeling. It never went away, no matter how many derbies you were involved it, it always has that little bit of extra oomph to the match, to the whole situation. Add chasing United to the mix and that’s one potent fixture waiting to happen. Keeping it simple, he interrupted Martin to say, “Play your heart out, Škrtel, because I’ll be back.” Then he replaced the phone knowing that his words will be what Martin will carry onto the pitch in a few hours time and that they will be the driving force of a good performance against their mortal enemies.
The Anfield crowd was roaring. Two derbies in the space of a week and it was finally upon them, the first of the two fixtures. The anticipation and impatience was palpable. Two halves of one city united yet opposed in a clash of brilliant blue and red.
The ninety minutes began to tick down and the ball was passed around a wet pitch with point and purpose. Feet pounded into to grass and bodies shifted this way and that as each side began their attack and attempted to defend. Blue and Red weaved between each other, into each other and only the whistle of the referee ruled here.
As usual, Xabi Alonso sat deep and dictated play, his arms flying out at awkward angles as he placed the ball at his team mates’ feet, yards down the pitch. Stevie roamed with purpose, Torres skipped between the blue defenders, his short blonde hair plastered to his face in the rain.
Martin Škrtel smiled wryly as the ref pulled the play back due to his foul. Spreading his hands wide, he grinned as if to say, “What did I do?” Bowing to the ref’s decision, he backed off but he wasn’t happy. Perhaps, he needn’t have pushed, but football can get scrappy at times and he was only reacting.
When Tim Cahill shoved him roughly as he was shielding a ball, his temper boiled over. He had crashed into one of the guards lying in the sidelines and had almost lost his footing. He rounded back on the Australian, his lips pulled back into a typical snarl, heated wrath burning within his throat. The ref was quick to come over and mediate a peaceful truce. The two men shook hands half-heartedly, all smiles for the cameras, but Martin couldn’t let it rest.
Perhaps it was the coldness of his wet jersey that startled him when Tim Cahill’s hand had pressed onto his side, or maybe it was the warmth that even the wetness of his shirt could not mask. The feel of the midfielder’s hand against his body, even when accompanied by the force exerted, made him feel uncomfortable. It was that, more so than the underhanded behaviour that ate at him. And when they had shaken hands, the same unsettling feeling came over him. Looking at the Australian, he saw the same confused wariness mirrored in Cahill’s eyes. They turned and walked in opposite directions, blatantly ignoring each other.
The score was still goalless, something that grated both teams as they needed to be one up on the other to feel satisfied. The ball spun out and sent Victor Anichebe running towards Pepe with only Xabi Alonso and Martin Škrtel for company. He disposed of Xabi with a hefty shove and while the red half flailed unsuccessfully at the referee for a foul, Škrtel and Anichebe continued towards the goal mouth. A bit of a tussle and Anichebe went down. Martin threw his hands up in disgust and innocence and this time it was the Evertonian half that bayed for a penalty which didn’t come.
Had Steven Gerrard worried for Xabi, no one will ever know. For even before the spectators had collected themselves from the drama of Škrtel vs Anichebe, did the Liverpool Captain receive a pass and drilled it into the opposite net. The deadlock was broken and Steven, born and bred Scouse, celebrated with exalted joy, his arms flung wide, sliding down on the wet surface. It was his 250th match for Liverpool and scoring against bitter rivals, Everton, was the perfect way to mark that milestone. Xabi, however, felt the pride burn within him, threatening to explode from his mortal body. He loved it when Stevie scored, because it always meant so much to his captain. But a part of him felt resigned that yet again, it was up to Gerrard to win the match. Liverpool should not have to rely on him so much but they had played nearly 70 minutes without anything to show for it despite having both Fernando and Keane up front. El Niño was only recently back from injury so maybe he should be forgiven. But it was starting to irritate that Liverpool, again, needed ‘Gerrard the Saviour’ and the fact that, despite this being a Merseyside derby, Liverpool did not play with the same gusto, heart and belief as they normally do. Added to that, this was at Anfield. The image of Anfield being a fortress was crumbling.
A tired Torres is taken off and within a minute, Benayoun gives away a free kick in a dangerous position. It wasn’t necessary, but the foul was committed so Arteta stood over the ball. Everton had four minutes to find an equaliser. With blue and red gathering within the box, the whistle blew to allow the free kick to be taken. Scrambling ensued and they had their equaliser. Amidst the many bodies, Tim Cahill snuck out, unmarked to head the ball into the net past a hapless Pepe.
As Everton cheered and whooped, Martin Škrtel glared at the back of the Aussie goal-scorer’s head. He had thought perhaps they could have had dealings after the match. Maybe it would have been okay, more than okay. He was sure it would have been welcomed, but now, there was no way. With that one goal, Tim Cahill destroyed any chance of a relationship before it even started. There would be no love between the two men of opposing sides. There had been no love between them, ever. Just a whisper of a possibility and now there was no way they were going to be caught fraternising with the enemy.
Four minutes was up; injury time now. Seconds ticking down and that was it. The first ninety minutes of the Merseyside clashes of the week had resulted in a draw and a point apiece. Martin watched Steven and Xabi walk together down the tunnel with envy. His mind drifted back to the goal they conceded; whose fault had it been? Could it have been his? He was, after all, behind Sami and the scene blurred in his mind even as he grasped at it, trying to analyse what happened. He supposed Rafa would call them in to watch what happened later on anyway, so he’ll be reminded of it and told what should have been done. Right now, he just wanted someone to walk beside, like Xabi and Steven were, someone to say that it’s all right, that it wasn’t his fault, because he really feared that it was.
He couldn’t walk alongside Tim Cahill, as he had intended to, initially. The idea of the Australian now sent prickles down his spine as he raged silently over the two dropped points. Stepping into the change-rooms, he stripped off his wet jersey and tossed it aside in frustration. He ran his hands over his head, trying to forget that match, his eyes closed.
A small jingle told him his phone was buzzing away; an incoming call was waiting to be picked up. He pressed the green button on his phone and held it up to his ear. The ‘private’ number did not fool him.
As Daniel’s voice came soothingly over the line, Martin finally breathed out with ease. Someone understood.