Murmurs from the Mersey (April 1, 1899)


April 1, 1899
What is that I hear? Surely it is “Special edition; final result of the Cup tie!” Why, of course, it must be. It is time, it was known, and —- “Hi, boy! Paper quick! Dare I look at it! Who has won, I wonder! Well, I suppose I will have to learn, sooner or later, so why not settle it at once! Lie down, little flutterer! Here goes for — Why, what’s this! Help! Help! Sheffield United 1, Liverpool nil!

This cannot surely be correct! There must be some mistake. No! There it is, in cold black type — Sheffield United 1, Liverpool nil. Poor Liverpool! Poor, poor Liverpool! I haven’t the heart to dwell further upon wat is almost like a personal loss. I will respect Liverpool’s Cup tie memory, and allow them to rest for a week at least before probing their wounds and looking for narrowly into their conduct.

Liverpool’s glorious prospects of annexing the League championship received a rude shock on Saturday last, when Notts Forest had the audacity to relieve them of a couple of points, and that, too, before their own loyal spectators. This is robbery with a vengeance; robbery with violence, in fact. McQueen was between the Liverpool stick, and comported himself in right manly fashion, and it was through no fault of his that victory did not crown the efforts of his team. That merciless jade. Fortune, was most unkind to the Liverpudlians, and they have disgraceful luck and not bad play to thank for their defeat. They were streets ahead of the Foresters in general play, and how they missed scoring upon several occasions passeth all comprehension. The defeat was a bitter blow to the hopes and ambitions of Tom Watson and Co., and it is just possible that the unkind action of the Foresters will obliterate the glorious vision in which the League Cup formed the central figure.

Liverpool have signed on a new goalkeeper. In the light of recent events this is not very surprising, although for many reasons it is greatly to be deplored that Storer has not been given a further opportunity of proving his worth. Perkins is the name of the gentleman signed on, and Luton the place of his birth (from a football point of view, at least). The local papers, as per usual, have been flooded with accounts of his many attainments, and when Perkins steps on the field I fully expect to gaze upon a man six feet, two or three inches in height, 15 or 16 stone in the scale, and with the figure of an Adonis. Seriously, though, I wish Perkins every success and trust that he will prove an able and willing servant to Liverpool.
(Source: Lancashire Evening Post: April 1, 1899)

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