The five stages of Fernando Torres grief

In November of 2010, when current Liverpool owner John W. Henry took control of the club, he gave a number of interviews to English publications. Amongst the intelligent, measured comments was a statement to be remembered.

While he spoke of the wild Premier League transfer market, the Boston Red Sox, the Liverpool squad’s high wage costs and their even-higher age, there was a simple, bold statement which echoed prominently.

“We don’t want a player at the club who doesn’t want to be at the club,” the statement said.

Perhaps this was the first ominous sign in the saga of Fernando Torres. A hacking cough that might need to be checked out later. A smudge on the x-ray that’s probably nothing. This was a warning shot – and four months later Torres would shuffle off his Anfield coil.

With my paternal heritage tracing firmly back to the Merseyside town of Birkenhead, I became a Liverpool fan via family mandate. The choice was fairly simple – you will support Liverpool Football Club. If you choose not to support Liverpool Football Club, you may support Tranmere Rovers, but make your choice wisely, son, as this warm country of your birth tends to limit soccer coverage to only the Premier League, and Tranmere are hardly a sure thing.

This was a lot for a month-old baby to consider. My silence was taken as a vote for the Reds, and the appropriate beanie was applied to my bald head. Years later, I would purchase a jersey from the Anfield store emblazoned with the number 9 and the word “Torres”.

The five stages of Fernando grief came quickly. An offer for Torres, from Chelsea, is as predictable as Sir Alex Ferguson lying through his chewing gum, but this one was different. Reports filtered through that the player had asked the club to consider the move.

“Nonsense!” I cried, feeling sweet, Stage One Denial wash over me. “British press malarkey. London-based, Anti-Liverpool rhetoric! The lad wants his daughter to speak Scouse! Promises were made!”

Then came news of a written transfer request. Slipped under Kenny’s door in the dead of night, and reported on Liverpool’s own homepage. I dropped into Stage Two – anger, like Mark Webber coming out of a chicane. The red jersey was spared from the flames (only because of the inherent danger of setting fire to an object that is 99 per cent polyester).

“Give us Anelka, then!”

Bargaining. A messy, unfortunate period. Difficult to watch.

Then came the depression. “Reina will be next to go, you’ll see,” I slurred drunkenly to my confused friends. In my darkest hour, the word relegation was mumbled, and I was sent to a West Ham fan for support. He didn’t understand. How could he comprehend the searing pain of a 30 million pound profit, and a mid-table standing? It was all about him.

The universe often conspires in strange and wonderful ways to rescue us. Amid the hysteria, two youthful figures emerged to give us hope. The diminutive Uruguayan workhorse, with an astonishing goal rate, and an English colossus, adorned with quick feet and a ponytail. That one of these new heroes was recently suspended for biting (and cheated beloved Ghana out of a World Cup semi-final berth) is of little consequence – this only adds to the mystery.

If our new gentle giant broke the jaw of a teammate during training, this will be overlooked. Footballers with just the right amount of crazy tend to prosper in the ego-driven badlands of the Premier League.

And finally, the calming, noble voice which first signalled the death knoll, now took our hand and guided us towards the future. John W. Henry, interviewed in The Guardian following the departure of Torres, brought much welcome sanity to the proceedings. “We weren’t going to write off Champions League and Europa League for the sake of someone’s happiness. The striker position had to be filled, by someone who made sense for the long term. They [Newcastle United] made a hell of a deal [selling Andy Carroll]. We felt the same way.” And there it was – acceptance.

Fernando Torres is no Judas. His summary of the transfer – told prior to his debut defeat at the hands of his former club – hint at the quiet intelligence which made him so dangerous and clinical in front of goal. Though he risked the ire of his former supporters, in many cases he was spot-on. Liverpool have some way to go before they can recapture their former glory. Yet there is hope – in the form of Dalglish and John Henry, and in our two talented, young (and just a little loco) strikers.

Fernando Torres is no Judas – but I turned to The Good Book in my time of grief, and read about what happened to Iscariot. Apparently, he returned the 30 pieces of silver he received for his betrayal, and they were used to buy a field.

Well, we could use a new stadium…