Some departures feel like endings. Others feel like unresolved conversations.
Mohamed
Salah’s final appearance at Anfield belonged to the latter category.
Liverpool’s 1–1 draw with Brentford will disappear into statistical archives,
but the image of Salah leaving the pitch in the 73rd minute, eyes wet and face
struggling against emotion, will endure much longer. The man who built a career
on controlled movement and ruthless precision suddenly looked disarmed by
sentiment.
"I
cried more than in my whole life," he admitted afterwards.
For a
footballer whose public persona has often been defined by restraint, discipline
and relentless professionalism, the confession revealed something larger than
sadness. It revealed attachment. Beneath the records, controversies and goals
stood a footballer who had spent nine years trying not merely to succeed at
Liverpool, but to belong to its mythology.
And perhaps
that is what makes the ending feel simultaneously beautiful and uncomfortable.
Because
Salah leaves Liverpool as a legend. Yet legends rarely leave quietly.
The
Outsider Who Became Royalty
Football
often rewrites history to make greatness seem inevitable.
But Salah’s
journey to Liverpool immortality contained no prophecy. There was no universal
anticipation when he arrived from Roma in 2017. The reception was cautious at
best.
A failed
Chelsea winger. Productive in Italy, yes—but Serie A success carried its own
caveat in English football discourse. Liverpool paid a club-record fee of £36.9
million, and the reaction was not excitement so much as curiosity.
Yet Jürgen
Klopp identified something beyond statistics.
Not pace
Not goals.
Hunger.
The German
saw a footballer obsessed with improvement. Someone dissatisfied by adequacy.
That obsession would become the defining feature of Salah’s Liverpool career.
He scored
on his Premier League debut. Then again on opening day after opening day,
season after season. Forty-four goals in his first campaign. Golden Boots
followed. Premier League titles followed. European glory followed.
Then came
numbers so absurd they ceased to feel real:
255 goals.
435
appearances.
Third-highest
scorer in Liverpool history.
A mountain
of trophies.
And perhaps
more importantly, he transformed Liverpool from a club remembering greatness
into one creating it again.
As Salah
himself put it:
"We
put this club back where it belongs."
There is
arrogance in the statement.
There is
also truth.
The
Impossible Burden of Sustained Excellence
Liverpool's
recent era cannot be discussed without acknowledging the strange tragedy of
timing.
In another
generation, Salah and Liverpool might have collected four or five league
titles.
Instead
they existed alongside Pep Guardiola's Manchester City machine.
Andy
Robertson said it plainly:
"We
should have won more Premier Leagues if it wasn't for that man."
That
sentence captures the era.
Liverpool
became extraordinary simply to remain competitive
Ninety-seven
points once brought heartbreak. Ninety-two points once brought second place.
Excellence became compulsory rather than exceptional.
And Salah
embodied that burden.
When
Liverpool needed certainty, he supplied it.
When anxiety gripped Anfield, he scored.
When
moments required inevitability, Liverpool turned to No. 11.
The
expectation surrounding Salah became so total that even his absence felt
catastrophic. The collective groan when Sergio Ramos injured him in Kyiv in
2018 reflected more than sympathy; it reflected fear.
Because
Liverpool without Salah increasingly felt unimaginable.
Great
Players Rarely Accept Their Own Mortality
This final
season, however, introduced a different narrative.
Not decline
exactly.
But
friction.
The
transition from Jürgen Klopp to Arne Slot created an unavoidable reality: every
managerial era eventually asks difficult questions of ageing superstars.
And Salah
did not enjoy the answers.
Dropped for
crucial matches. Benched against Paris Saint-Germain. Public comments
suggesting Liverpool had "thrown him under the bus." Social media
posts demanding a return to "heavy-metal football."
The
grievances became increasingly visible.
Understandably
so.
Great
players are uniquely unequipped for reduction.
Because
greatness depends upon irrational self-belief.
Steven
Gerrard possessed it.
Sir Kenny
Dalglish possessed it.
Cristiano
Ronaldo possesses it still.
And Salah
possesses it too.
Elite
athletes rarely recognize decline because denial partly created their greatness
in the first place.
Liverpool's
decision and Salah's frustration can simultaneously be correct.
His pace is
not what it was.
Arne Slot
wants greater intensity.
Salah believes he remains world-class.
All can be
true.
The
Orientalism of Mohamed Salah
Yet Salah's
legacy contains another conversation—one extending beyond football.
For years,
many supporters have argued that football's establishment has never fully
embraced Salah in the way his achievements demanded.
The
evidence remains curious.
Seventh in
the 2021 Ballon d'Or.
Excluded
entirely in 2024.
Fourth in
2025.
For a
footballer producing numbers comparable with the game's elite, the recognition
often felt strangely restrained.
Some
observers have pointed toward anti-Arab bias, Islamophobia and deeper forms of
cultural framing.
Peter
Bolster drew upon the ideas of Edward Said's theory of Orientalism to explain
it: Salah is admired, but not always mythologized.
The
distinction matters.
European
football frequently describes Salah through physical language
Fast.
Explosive.
Clinical.
Direct.
Yet his
evolution tells a different story.
Across
recent seasons, Salah became increasingly creative, increasingly intelligent
and increasingly complete. His playmaking expanded dramatically. His passing
became sharper. His understanding of space more sophisticated.
Still, the
old descriptions remained.
Perhaps
because complexity is harder than stereotype.
Perhaps because football itself occasionally struggles to fully understand players who exist outside its traditional cultural centres.
Perhaps
because Salah's outspoken support for Palestine complicated acceptance further.
No
definitive answer exists.
But the
question itself continues to linger.
The
Stories That Create Immortality
Something is revealing in the knowledge that Salah loved hearing stories about
Steven Gerrard and Kenny Dalglish from Liverpool staff.
Not
statistics.
Stories.
Because
legends are never made by numbers alone.
Numbers
explain greatness.
Stories
explain belonging.
Salah
wanted entry into Liverpool's folklore.
Not simply
as a goalscorer.
But as a
symbol.
As someone
future generations would speak about in reverent tones.
And he
achieved precisely that
One day a
young player at Liverpool's training ground may ask what it takes to become an
all-time great.
Someone
will answer with stories.
About the
player who arrived from Chelsea carrying doubt and left carrying history
About
midnight swimming sessions.
About
endless shooting practice.
About
impossible consistency.
About
relentless standards.
About a
footballer who scored goals like routine and pursued excellence like an obsession.
And
eventually, they will arrive at the simplest description of all:
"The
Egyptian King."
Because
resentment fades.
Controversies
fade.
Awkward
endings fade
Legends do
not.
Thank You
Faisal Caesat
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