The sky, bible black, was rent by lightning. Great belches of thunder reverberated around the East Midlands. Rain thudded from the sky as the angels, overcome, could not contain themselves and, in sympathy with despairing fans in the stands, sobbed in torrents. The gods were distraught, the heavens trembled. Demons and witches wrestled in the moonlit sky. In Loughborough and Kettering, doves set themselves against eagles while, all across the Market Harborough area, horses turned and ate themselves.
Or at least that’s how relegation is supposed to be. As it turned out, Leicester’s return to the Championship was sealed on a pleasant spring afternoon in a game of almost no incident beyond the Trent Alexander-Arnold goal that took Liverpool to within three points of the title. The mood was of glum acquiescence. They have been nowhere near good enough to stay up this season and relegation has seemed distinctly probable since they lost 3-0 against Wolves three days before Christmas.
The hunting horn and flame machines are of questionable benefit at the best of times but to herald a probable relegation they felt almost distasteful. The more fitting buildup perhaps came from the plane that flew over the stadium before kick- off, dragging behind it a banner on which was printed: “King Power clueless, sack the board”. Imagine how bad it might have been if they hadn’t pushed profitability and sustainability rules to the limit and avoided sanction only by slithering between the jurisdictions of the Premier League and Championship.
There were boos at the final whistle, and a banner unveiled complaining about two relegations in three years, but it all seemed a little perfunctory. Plenty of the Leicester crowd hung back to applaud Liverpool; it might be a while before they get to see Premier League champions in the flesh again. This has been coming for too long for fans not to have mentally adjusted to the reality.
Leicester weren’t in the bottom three when Steve Cooper was sacked but, given the negativity around the club at the time, it would be misleading to suggest it would have been much different had he stayed. Whether a better replacement could have been found than Ruud van Nistelrooy is another question. As a striker for Manchester United, he scored a league goal every 128 minutes. Under his management, Leicester have scored a league goal every 164 minutes and they have the second-worst defensive record in the division.
Chants of “Going down” from the Liverpool fans, perhaps bored in the near silence and aware that the tension had been taken out of the game by Arsenal’s 4-0 win at Ipswich earlier in the afternoon, felt gratuitous. Of course they’re going down; they’re terrible. It’s like mocking a tortoise for not winning a 100m gold.
Perhaps Leicester aren’t as bad as Southampton, but they are an integral member of the worst bottom three in Premier League history. When the promoted three are being relegated en masse in consecutive seasons, when they’re barely able been to put up a fight, it should, on the principle of that no club is an island, concern all of football. If the pyramid’s a ziggurat, it isn’t really fit for purpose.
It wouldn’t be fair to say that nothing happened – given the woodwork was struck five times – but, as in Liverpool’s deceptively dramatic win against West Ham last week, there was a strange sense of futility about the whole occasion. Nothing quite had the snap of intensity of the midweek European games; it was all a little mannered and three-quarter‑paced. There was a profound awareness that none of it mattered, that greater forces had shaped the narrative beyond the scope of individuals to affect.
Midway through the second half, Conor Coady did hook the ball over the line, prompting a strangled gurgle from the crowd. Nobody seemed quite certain how to react. There was definitely something you were supposed to do when you scored, but what was it? A celebratory roar, maybe? But what would that sound like? It just seemed so incongruous. Not the sort of thing you do at the King Power Stadium. Nobody quite had the confidence to give one a go. But no matter. The referee, Stuart Attwell, had seen that Patson Daka had shoved Alisson and the goal was – rightly – disallowed. The King Power Stadium lapsed back into its comfortable grumble.
after newsletter promotion
Leicester have now failed to scored in nine successive home league games. In that time, their fans could have watched stagings of King Lear, Hamlet and all three parts of Henry VI. One more game and the home league drought will be as long as Wagner’s entire Ring cycle, although lacking the lightness of touch and frivolity of the German master.
When Bobby De Cordova‑Reid struck that last home goal, a 91st-minute equaliser against Brighton, 133 days ago, Bashar al‑Assad was just being toppled as leader of Syria. Gary O’Neil was still manager of Wolves and Russell Martin was still at Southampton. Joe Biden was still the US president and Saudi Arabia hadn’t been confirmed formally as host of the 2034 World Cup.
The world was a very different place then, but Leicester were doomed just as surely.
Source: theguardian.com
