Anfield’s party atmosphere quickly turned sour as the talking point Liverpool fans had hoped to avoid made its presence felt, and Steven Scragg explains why he didn’t boo Trent Alexander-Arnold.
A continuing title-winning party, another airing of as many tunes from the Liverpool matchday songbook as possible, an away section on the receiving end of every punchline in the footballing joke book, and two goals within close proximity midway through the first half.
For 67 minutes on a beautifully sunny afternoon, Anfield on Sunday offered a little bit of everything glorious and positive.
Yet, the clues that the mood could easily change dramatically were clear when the teams were announced prior to kick-off.
The age-old custom of the 11 starting names being cheered to the rafters was flipped for a sense of increasing foreboding as Peter McDowell crept closer and closer to calling out the name of Trent Alexander-Arnold, among the list of Arne Slot’s substitutes.
The boos were not indulged in by everyone, but they were loud and they were vented with emphasis.
There and then, it was crystal clear that should Alexander-Arnold be introduced to the game at some point, then the reaction on the terraces would by no means be a uniform one.
A first at Anfield
And so it came to pass, as he entered the fray in place of Conor Bradley midway through the second half. The crescendo of anger being directed at a player with a Liverbird on their chest was completely and utterly unique within the history of the club.
Chatting with Alan, a friend of mine, before the Tottenham game just over a fortnight ago, on that magnificent day we clinched the league title, he brought news from Leicester the previous week, where he had been in attendance.
There had been boos and jeers aimed at Alexander-Arnold then. Alan described a toxic vibe before the goal. We all saw the reaction of the goalscorer that day. This was before the news of his impending departure had been publicly confirmed.
Sunday marked Alexander-Arnold’s first Anfield footballing activity since the official announcement of his leaving of home was broadcast, and given that opinions have been very much divided across the fanbase on the topic, the outpouring of feeling was always going to be divided too.
This was different though.
Trent on. Boos. pic.twitter.com/pjM5JvCD72
— Slotoholic (@Slotoholic) May 11, 2025
It’s well over 47 years now since I was first bundled through an Anfield turnstile, and Sunday was the first time that I had ever heard a serving Liverpool player being booed by their own fans.
Traditionally, we used to be billed as the most knowledgeable and fairest supporters in the land, but that largely uniform demographic has long since altered.
• READ: Why Liverpool fans booed Trent Alexander-Arnold
Our DNA hasn’t necessarily changed, and the celebrations that embraced the league title being clinched showed how inimitable we are at our finest, but a line in the very scriptures Shankly chiselled out in stone has been swept across, and there is no erasing that now.
A future weapon neutralised
Across the span of my Liverpool-watching life, the relationship between the supporters and the local lads who make good enough to carry our hopes and dreams onto the pitch with a Liverbird on their chest has meandered from one thing to another, and seemingly back again.
A first trip to Anfield in November 1977, it wasn’t until the beginning of the 1980s that football became something I felt I had a personal stake in rather than it simply being part of the family and household furniture, as much as say the cat was, or that my Nan would visit every other weekend, or that Wednesday night was egg, chips and beans night at our house.
Throughout the 1980s, it became difficult for local lads to make the breakthrough into Liverpool’s first team from the reserves and youth ranks.
Between the rise of Sammy Lee, the advent of Gary Ablett, and Mark Seagraves, aside for a couple of cup games in 1985/86, the Reds’ first XI was a Scouse-free zone more often than not, not inclusive of shop-bought Scousers, such as Steve McMahon and John Aldridge.
Within this, where a Liverpool player brought in from outside the area would be expected to give 150 percent to the cause, 200 percent would be demanded from a local lad, and if it was ever felt that they had shortchanged the crowd, then the message of displeasure would be loud and clear, without resorting to booing.
Matters then shifted during the 1990s as collectively Liverpool regressed, which meant that the local lads became a more celebrated entity, pivoting on Steve McManaman and blossoming through Robbie Fowler and Michael Owen, onward to Steven Gerrard, Jamie Carragher and eventually Alexander-Arnold; like a Scouse footballing Doctor Who, there was always a ‘Chosen One’.
For this latest incarnation, however, we’ve had a local lad prospering at a time when we are collectively blessed too.
At the peak of his powers, Alexander-Arnold will leave us as a Champions League winner and multiple Premier League winner, to go along with a variety of domestic cup medals and other global and European trinkets.
The Scouse world in the palm of his hands, the next projected captain of the club. Rather than do it all again as the leader on the pitch at Anfield, he’s cashing it all in, statue and all, for a place in the sun and a dream to win the Ballon d’Or.
Not just that, he’s going for free, leaving behind a void and no glowing pot of transfer funds to bolster his loss to the team. Although he loves us all.
And this is where the volatility stems from. Alexander-Arnold could have gone on to be the greatest Scouse Liverpool player of the lot. Yet, booing him should never have been an option, at least not this side of him rocking up at Anfield in a Real Madrid shirt, on a Champions League night.
You don’t want to applaud him onto the pitch? That’s fair game. You have no intention of singing his name ever again? I get that. But, by booing him now, you out yourself as a bit of a crank, and you neutralise a potent future weapon for when he does come back in opposing colours.
Remember the images of the stomachs of Luis Suarez and Philippe Coutinho exiting their arses the night we put four past Barcelona? Sunday’s events mean that Alexander-Arnold has already lived that moment.
It’s fine to be angry, but there is a code of conduct to it.
Liverpool Football Club, its owners, Slot, Alexander-Arnold, and we ourselves as supporters have under a fortnight to figure out a way not to turn a much-anticipated trophy presentation and open-top bus tour into something tinged with an edge.
