(More) Proof That God Hates Me

Yesterday, my beloved Liverpool Reds (see previous two posts) took on the hated Chelsea Blues in a second-leg match in the Champion's League. Due to a scoring system that seems overly-difficult to explain to the uninitiated, but is really quite simple, Liverpool had to win by three goals to advance in the playoffs, or by two goals if they scored three or more. See, simple.

Anyway, I have been swamped at work (thus the light posting), so there was no way I was going to be able to take a couple hours off to watch the match. Plus, Liverpool has little chance of success, so why bother, right? So I am working way and it gets to be a about 12:15, so the match was half-hour in, so I thought I'd check it on the interwebs. I dial up the soccernet and low-and-behold, the Reds had put two in and were one goal away from doing the next-to. Still, work to be done and all that (Law-Boy has been fudging his job up and creating work for me and everyone else), so I decide that I can squeeze in the second half while I eat.

While I was at Taylors waiting for my chicken Autzen sandwich with a salad-blue-cheese, Chelsea scores. No big deal, if the 'pool scores once more to make it 3-1, then we have extra time. While eating my sandwich, Chelsea scores again. Liverpool is basically dead here. They would need to score twice more and they have not looked like scoring in the second half. So I missed Liverpool scoring twice to keep the dream alive, but I got to see Chelsea score twice to kil the dream back off.

Meanwhile a gentleman of the alcoholic persuasion has entered the bar and taken a seat next to me. He smells. And not good. Fine. He slurs his way through asking the bartender for a cab, which the bartender starts to call for, until he becomes pissy that the bartender is rushing it, as he would like to have a beer first. And maybe a glass of Tanquery. And another beer. I'm still sitting there out of the petty hope that if Liverpool can score, at least the Chelsea fans in the bar will have to sweat out the last ten minutes of the match.

Chelsea scores.

With the score 2-3 with 15 minutes left, I suddenly realize that I should be at work. Liverpool would need to score three times to advance. So, I missed Liverpool's goals, but got to listen to the Chelsea fans (who really are garbage) go on three times. Joy.

Back a my desk, I am working away until about 10 minutes later when I get a twit from Wobs saying "See you in the semis" (he roots for Barca, they advanced easily) and I am wonder why he would see me in the semis. My interest in the semis would be greatly lessened by Liverpool's non-participation. On a lark, I check the score. Liverpool has managed to score twice in the ten minutes I was not watching and have taken a 4-3 lead, needing one goal to advance with about 5 minutes to play.

I call Wobs -- holy F.

While I am watching the ESPN gamecast, which consists of a text scroll of some commentator and little dots flashing on the screen when a shot is taken, it seems Liverpool is pouring it on. I am telling Wobs the same story I am telling you now and

Lampard scores for Chelsea in the 89th. 4-4. It is over.

So, I missed all four Liverpool goals, but caught all four Chelsea goals.

At this point, I feel I should apologize to all Liverpool fans around the world. If we have a chance of overtaking United for the Prem title, I promise not to watch.