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“We didn’t lay a glove on them,” Alisson yelled at the top of his lungs, slamming the door behind him. He had no idea what had caused him to become so furious these past few days, because Alisson wasn’t supposed to be furious. Sad, anxious, self-deprecating—but never angry. Anger was for Milner, Henderson, Klopp. Alisson didn’t do anger—but now he did.
“It’s Brighton, Brighton. Any other day we would beat them, but all we did was disappear.”
“Maybe you could’ve saved some of those goals,” Gakpo argued, glaring at Alisson. The keeper was sure that Gakpo thought he just yelled at everybody. That was all that had happened since he came, anyways. “Maybe Mo could’ve touched the ball once in a while, and Hendo could’ve said something productive.”
Robertson grabbed Henderson before he could strangle the youngster. “Maybe you could’ve taken that chance you got.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. From what I’m seeing,” Gakpo pointed to Alisson, then Robertson, “all you guys do is blame each other after losses. You Liverpudlians don’t know how to lose.”
Milner glared at the dressing room in general, hands on his hips. “First of all Cody, you’re a Liverpudlian. And two, the young chap makes a point—we’re all acting like United right now. Arguing among ourselves isn’t going to solve anything. Neither will yelling at anybody,” he continued, glancing at Alisson. “Although sometimes it is warranted. What we need to do is get better.”
“I guess you’re right,” Alisson sighed, taking his seat on the bench. “But how do we get better? I’m doing all that I can and still nothing works.”
Milner smiled weakly, despite himself. “You’re not the only one who’s made some mistakes, Ali. We all need to take responsibility for cleaning up our act. And for admitting our mistakes.”
“Wise words as always, James.” Henderson rose from the bench, clapping to get the others’ attention. “Now come on, lads. To the showers.”
Alisson followed his teammates to the washrooms, head as low as the rest of them.
*
Upon taking off his shirt and looking in the mirror, Alisson saw just how much the challenges from the Brighton players had hurt him. There was a bruise on his left arm where the Japanese guy had stepped on it, and his neck was absolutely sore. On top of that, his hair had turned several shades lighter.
Wait a minute. I’ve seen that brown before! “Adam!”
“Surprise.” Lallana stepped out from behind Alisson, minding the stepstool he’d been standing on. “Good to see you, Ali. What happened to our team?”
Alisson couldn’t help but smile at Lallana saying “our team” instead of “Liverpool”. “I don’t know, Adam. It’s like somebody turned off a light-switch.”
“I totally relate. I felt the same way back at Southampton.” Lallana leaned against the counter, brushing back his hair. “Did you hear what the fans are saying about Sadio?”
“We shouldn’t have sold Sadio, not at all. I love the boss, but this has got to be his worst decision out of his few bad decisions. Sadio’s a wonderful player and even I didn’t see all he did for us,” Alisson admitted with a rueful frown. “I don’t blame the fans for thinking that.”
“I couldn’t have said it better, Ali,” said Lallana. “Klopp is a great guy, why isn’t he accepting the facts?”
Alisson could only shrug, sighing heavily. “I don’t know, Ads. I’d do anything to solve this.”
“Did you say you’d do anything?”
“Yes.”
“Then come with me!” Lallana pulled Alisson away from the counter. “I have an idea. Meet me in the assembly room, and get the others!”
*
Lallana’s ability to switch between moods so quickly had always confused Alisson. The Englishman usually had good ideas though, so Alisson had promptly gathered the others from their showers and post-match duties, telling them to follow him into the Brighton assembly hall.
“Why would Lallana help us?” Gakpo muttered, hands stuffed in his pockets. “He’s from the opposition team; he probably wants to trick us.”
“I know Adam personally,” Henderson objected quite harshly. It was unusual for the normally calm skipper to argue, but today he’d seemed even more on the edge. “He wouldn’t trick us, he’s a good soul. Right, boss?”
Klopp barely nodded, wrapping his scarf tighter around his neck. He had only begrudgingly talked to the press after the game, refusing to converse with anybody else.
“Talk to a wall, and you’ll get nowhere.”
Elliott glared at the source of the sarcasm. “JAMES MILNER, HAVE DIGNITY!”
“What’s dignity?” Milner paid no attention to Elliott’s warning. “I lost that back at Leeds.”
Eventually they filtered inside the assembly hall, taking their seats. Alisson sat between Milner and Klopp, fidgeting with the end of his scarf. Lallana was on stage, setting up a projector.
“I know, I know,” Lallana began, straightening the edge of his sweater. “You guys are all wondering why we’re here. I’ve come to bring us the truth; to tell us the way out.”
“Which way out?” Milner muttered under his breath. Alisson could’ve sworn he saw their manager shaking his head as well.
“Face it, we’re having a dumpster fire season,” Lallana went on, turning on the projector. “But the only way for us to improve is acceptance.”
“Fine.” Henderson drew a deep breath, glancing at his teammates. “We accept that we’ve been crap. I don’t see the scoreline reversing now.”
“It won’t undo that—the harm’s already done there.” Lallana, much to Alisson’s surprise, didn’t seem fazed by Henderson’s uncharacteristic sarcasm. “Listen, I know you guys well. We’re a family, and we all have the ability to change for the better. I believe in that. But we must break eggs to make omelets, and the best way to break an egg is to break it gently.”
At that moment, Alisson felt a wave of renewed appreciation towards Lallana. Their former teammate, whose team was having a far better season by their standards, had come back to help his old club, no strings attached. Right now he wanted to wrap Lallana in a giant thank-you hug—but Lallana clearly wasn’t done yet.
“There are five stages of grief. Each stage isn’t the ideal goal, but it’s perfectly healthy to feel them.” Lallana switched the projector to a pie chart, divided into five equal parts. “If you work through them, you’ll reach acceptance.”
“Didn’t know you’re a psychologist, Ads,” Robertson joked. Not even Alexander-Arnold or the Scottish youngsters laughed.
“First, there’s denial.” Lallana called the first section of the diagram to attention with his laser pointer. “That’s when you refuse to accept the truth behind your issues. You end up ignoring obvious facts, or blaming unrelated things for your problems—like the wind.”
If Alisson wasn’t already bruised from the defeat, he would’ve laughed at Klopp’s disgruntled expression.
Lallana chuckled at his own joke. “Moving on, lads! Anger is the next stage. You stop denying things, but now you’re furious.”
Milner didn’t even raise his hand. “I’m always furious at things. Manchester clubs winning, Everton winning, Kostas—”
Robertson shot the Yorkshireman a pointed glare. The Scotsman had been so quiet that Alisson had forgotten he was even there. “What’s your issue with Kostas, mate?!”
“May I recall his birthday present to me?”
“May I recall how he scored that penalty?”
“Even a two-year-old could catch that penalty!!!”
Alisson winced, scooting closer to Klopp. He wished he’d worn his black kit—that way, he could blend in with Klopp’s jacket.
“Anger can cause us to do things,” Lallana went on, ignoring the ongoing squabble in the audience, “that we wouldn’t normally do. Examples are snapping at people, excessive shouting, breaking things, or even getting into fights.”
Alisson really wished he could hide now. He’d managed to do those four things in the space of six days. Glancing at the others, he saw Milner and Robertson stop brawling and shrink into their seats. Klopp, Gakpo, Salah and a few others had gone quiet, as well.
Elliott hadn’t gone quiet, though. “What if somebody’s being a…donkey and you want to slap tape over their mouths?”
“Shut up, imp,” Milner grumbled loud enough for everybody to hear.
Lallana didn’t fall for that trap. “Do not fight fire with fire, young man.”
Elliott had the grace to flush, ducking into his seat.
The Englishman shook his head in dismay, moving on with his presentation. “Bargaining. When we bargain, we—”
“Go to Asda’s clearance aisle?” Robertson quipped. Once again, the joke fell flat.
“No, Robbo. Bargaining people say ‘if I can’t have x, then at least I can have y’. Like…” Lallana chuckled nervously, glancing at the audience. “Can I get an example?”
Robertson wasted no time in getting off his chair and marching towards the stage. Please God, don’t let this go wrong, Alisson silently pleaded.
Milner was more vocal in his disapproval. “What on Earth is he doing? Hope he doesn’t embarrass himself with another awful joke, right boss?”
Again, Klopp didn’t respond.
“Does he have laryngitis?” Tsimikas yelled from three rows behind them. “I had laryngitis once.”
Milner sighed happily. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Meanwhile, Robertson was already on stage. He took the microphone, facing the other Liverpudlians. “Testing, one, two. Er…here’s my example. If I can’t be useful on the pitch, at least I can make us happy off the pitch—by telling jokes. But nobody seems to get them because they’re Scottish humor, or,” he glared at a sheepish Elliott, “they’re lacking in swears.”
So that’s how Robbo feels? Alisson watched as Robertson slunk off the stage. I never thought of it that way. His accent is a little hard to understand, but I’ll try to like his jokes from now on.
Robertson took his seat, leaning against Milner’s shoulder. Instead of nudging him off as usual, Milner rested a hand on Robertson’s knee.
“Thank you, Andy. That was…enlightening.” Lallana cleared his throat, taking back the microphone. “When you bargain, you can also try things that you wouldn’t normally try, like strange lineups and nonsensical tactics. Bargaining can cause us to do some strange things.”
The next slide on Lallana’s slideshow was completely blank. Lallana answered the question before it was even asked.
“The next stage is depression, and I wanted you to figure this out on your own,” he explained, turning off his laser pointer to face the others. “Depression also contains some sensitive topics like eating disorders, overexertion, or self-harm, so I think we’d better discuss that at our own will.”
“I see.” Alisson turned his head towards Klopp, who had finally decided to speak. “When you come to terms with the cause, plus all the denial and bargaining and fury, you become depressed.”
Alisson couldn’t help but notice that Klopp seemed to speak from experience. Usually that only reassured him that Klopp knew what he was doing, but now it raised a red flag in Alisson’s trauma detection system. He extended his hand towards Klopp, which the German gratefully took.
Lallana seemed to have noticed the interaction between the two, as well. “Once again boss, I couldn’t have said that any better. Basically, depression brings us mental turmoil. And what’s the best cure for mental turmoil?”
Robertson raised his hand, bouncing in his seat. “Oatmeal cookies dipped in Irn Bru jelly!”
“Do you ever shut up?” Milner rolled his eyes and slapped Robertson across the head. But the Yorkshireman had a small hint of a smile.
Alisson knew the answer to this question. “Talking.”
Lallana nodded, shutting off the projector. “We’re done here now. We may part ways, brothers—hold on, not yet!”
Everybody wondered what Lallana was about to do. To their surprise, Lallana tossed himself from the stage into the crowd, landing on top of Klopp with a mischievous grin. “Can I get that hug now?”
Needless to say, Lallana got more than just a hug.