With 30 minutes gone at Anfield there was a moment of home-crowd theatre that would stand as the defining image of this 2-0 Liverpool victory, perhaps even of Conor Bradley’s young career to date, and which also produced surely the loudest and most visceral roar of the night. And let’s face it, who doesn’t like a loud and visceral roar.
It came from a Liverpool corner, Kylian Mbappé carrying the ball upfield, and feeling the night start to open up ahead of him. At which, point: enter Bradley, haring across from the left, with an energy that stated very clearly this was not a footballer intent on harrying or jockeying or showing Mbappé the outside, but who instead intended to separate Mbappé’s feet, and also the ball, from the Anfield turf.
Already you could feel the air starting to rise, like the static before a lightning bolt, the crowd taking a collective breath as Bradley launched himself, took the ball, upended Mbappé and was met with a kind of thunderclap from three sides of the ground, so loud people in the city centre will just have assumed Liverpool had scored.
It was just a beautiful night all round for Bradley, who was given the chance to line up against Mbappé from the start. It was an excellent selection from Arne Slot, who could have gone with the relative safety of Joe Gomez, but instead simply trusted the talent. Slot would spend the night striding his touchline, magnificently smooth and tender pate gleaming under the midweek lights, and is, it seems safe to say, managing the best team in Europe right now.
For Bradley the duel with Mbappé was close to in-the-pocket stuff. The memes, the poorly photoshopped head literally poking out of a picture of a pocket. In between from defending with real clarity and aggression, there was the decisive period early in the second half when Bradley began to pop up in the Madrid penalty area, fully inverted, unbothered now by the Galactico at his back. It was from there Bradley found the neat fizzed pass that set up Alexis Mac Allister’s opening goal, a swivel and shot that basically took the game away. By the end Madrid had even started to kick him. There is no greater compliment.
Anfield had been crisp, still and authentically chilly at kick-off. The super Champions League was made with this kind of night in mind, the idea we’ll all just be spending our time gorging on sweetness, sucking down the super club power-flash. And there is still at this stage something irresistible about those grand old notes, the blocks of red and white. The sense that all that really matters is the moment inside that clean clear square of light.
Liverpool had their own motivation to go hard here. This was a chance for Slot to move further into his own space as Liverpool manager, to make it quite clear he is no longer tending and primping someone else’s garden.
It should be said Liverpool faced a much reduced version of Madrid, who have six key players missing. Without Vinícius Jr they are just a different team. Not in every phase, but in their threat, their edge, the idea of what they might do to you, like Thor going into battle without his hammer. Mbappé did at least get what he wanted, the chance not just to be The Man, but The Man on the left.
It has been a difficult transition so far. Mbappé has looked fragile and angsty. Early on he was massively booed, then watched as Mac Allister stole the ball and fed a galloping Darwin Núñez, always the best Darwin Núñez. And frankly Mbappé never really recovered.
There is basic lack of viciousness. Later in the half he confronted Bradley again, did at least 40 whiffling stepovers, a man dancing quite near a game of football, then lost the ball.
He did eventually get away from Bradley at 1-0 down, and helped funnel the ball across for Madrid to win a penalty. He also missed it, producing a terrible spot kick that Caoimhín Kelleher could basically have just caught.
Otherwise Liverpool dominated Madrid physically, on a night that was dominated by those bravura moments. Early on Núñez Cruyff-turned past Jude Bellingham after a corner then grooved away in front of the lower tier of the stand who reacted like an Olympic ice dancing crowd, purring, blowing kisses, raising their hands to their throats.
There was another Bradley moment on 64 minutes as he glided into the Madrid area, watched a cross sail over his head, and turned to see Mo Salah hammering back 40 yards to steal the ball, a wonderful piece of superstar-ratting that could have only been bettered if Salah had done it while literally holding a contract in his hand, pages flapping out behind him. Minutes later Salah would also miss a penalty.
Perhaps the best part for Liverpool and Slot was that it never seemed likely to matter.
