Thrown Under the Bus: Mohamed Salah, Liverpool, and the Anatomy of a Falling-Out

There are moments in football when tactics, formations, and results retreat into the background, and something rawer takes centre stage: emotion, ego, legacy. Mohamed Salah’s explosive post-match interview after Liverpool’s chaotic 3–3 draw at Elland Road was one such moment. It was not merely the complaint of a benched footballer; it was the anguished monologue of a club icon who feels discarded, misread, and—most painfully—unprotected.

When Salah said Liverpool had “thrown me under the bus”, he was not only accusing the club of tactical betrayal. He was articulating a rupture in trust, a fracture in the unwritten covenant between great players and great institutions: loyalty in exchange for legacy, protection in exchange for excellence.

The Making of a Scapegoat

Salah’s grievance is not rooted solely in the benching itself—though three consecutive absences from the starting XI would shock any player of his stature. What stings far more is the symbolism. For the first time in his Liverpool career, Salah senses that responsibility for collective failure has been quietly placed at his feet.

His words were carefully chosen, but the accusation was devastating: someone wanted him to take the blame. He did not name the manager, the board, or the wider club apparatus. He did not need to. In modern football, ambiguity often speaks louder than accusation.

Liverpool’s stuttering title defence has generated a familiar need for narrative clarity. When systems wobble and authority is questioned, the search for a culprit becomes irresistible. Salah, aging yet iconic, immensely powerful yet visibly human, fits the role perfectly.

And so, the club’s greatest modern-era player finds himself defending his existence.

Legacy Versus the Present Tense

Salah’s case rests on memory—recent memory, at that. Last season, he was not a fading star clinging to reputation; he was the Premier League’s leading scorer, the PFA and FWA Footballer of the Year, and the engine behind Liverpool’s title triumph. Five months ago, he stood atop English football. Today, he sits on the bench, bewildered.

This dissonance—between who he was and how he is now treated—fuels the emotional violence of his interview. Football, for all its ruthless logic, still operates on hierarchy. Salah believes he earned his place not daily, but historically. He earned the right to decline from the pitch, not be erased from it.

“I don’t have to go every day fighting for my position,” he said. “I earned it.”

In footballing terms, that statement is almost heretical. In human terms, it is deeply relatable.

The Manager’s Dilemma

Arne Slot did not arrive at Liverpool seeking revolution. Yet revolution has a way of arriving unannounced. Charged with defending a league title amid tactical uncertainty and heavy summer spending, Slot faces a classic managerial paradox: rebuild without appearing to disrespect the foundations.

Dropping Salah may be defensible on form alone. His numbers this season—five goals in 16 starts—do not match the heights of last year. His legs appear less explosive. His influence less constant. Time waits for no winger, not even one crowned “Egyptian King.”

From Slot’s perspective, removing Salah is both practical and preparatory. The Africa Cup of Nations looms; contingency plans are essential. At some point, Liverpool must learn to exist without their talisman.

But football management is not conducted in spreadsheets alone. Context matters. Messaging matters. So does empathy.

What Salah seems to resent most is not the decision, but the silence surrounding it—the sense that he has been exposed rather than shielded, criticized rather than contextualized.

Public Dissent as a Final Weapon

Salah is famously selective with the media. His interviews are rare by design, deployed only when the message demands amplification. Like his chilling warning—“If I speak, there will be fire”—during a tense Klopp-era moment, the Elland Road interview was a calculated ignition.

This was not a tantrum. It was a strategic escalation.

By speaking publicly, Salah forced a private conflict into the open, compelling the club to respond. For an institution that prides itself on discretion and unity, this was heresy. But heresy is often the language of those who feel unheard.

His references to pundit criticism—particularly Jamie Carragher—underscore a broader grievance: Salah believes that unlike other stars, he is not defended reflexively by the ecosystem around the club. The Harry Kane comparison, while imperfect, reveals Salah’s perception of double standards shaped by nationality, narrative, and familiarity.

The Weight of a Giant Past

Few players have shaped a modern elite club as profoundly as Salah has shaped Liverpool. His honours—two Premier League titles, a Champions League, domestic cups, and 250 goals—place him among Anfield’s immortals. Only Ian Rush and Roger Hunt stand above him in the pantheon of scorers.

That weight cuts both ways. It magnifies expectation. It magnifies decline.

This season, Salah looks mortal in a way he never has before. The urgency remains. The precision flickers. The inevitability—the sense that something will happen simply because he is there—has faded.

Slot’s Liverpool may need evolution. Salah’s Liverpool is built on permanence.

These two truths now collide.

A Goodbye Waiting to Happen

Salah’s references to the Brighton game felt ominous. He spoke like a man preparing for farewell rituals—telling his mother to come, speaking of enjoying the moment, invoking the word “goodbye” without demanding it be believed.

He insists he does not regret signing his extension, yet the question itself wounds him. It exposes a truth footballers dread: contracts can bind bodies, but not futures.

Saudi Arabia waits patiently, its interest both denied and undeniable. The Africa Cup of Nations offers physical distance—and perhaps emotional clarity.

If Salah leaves Liverpool, it will not be because he was finished, but because the ending was mishandled.

Authority, Mortality, and the Inferno

Salah’s interview has intensified pressure on Arne Slot, but it has not tilted the balance of power. Clubs rarely sacrifice managers for aging legends, however luminous their past. Authority, once challenged publicly, tends to reassert itself decisively.

This is the cruel geometry of football: yesterday’s king becomes today’s problem, tomorrow’s memory.

And yet, something feels deeply unsettling about this fracture. Not because Salah is blameless—he is not—but because football, at its best, knows how to honour its greats even while moving past them.

Salah spoke. And in doing so, he lit a fire that reveals more than conflict. It reveals fear—of decline, of irrelevance, of endings that do not match the beauty of the journey.

For Mohamed Salah and Liverpool, the tragedy may not be separation. It may be that, after everything they achieved together, they no longer recognise each other at the most human moment of all: when greatness begins, quietly, to fade.

Liverpool’s Unravelling: A Crisis Beyond Tactics, Beyond Slot, Beyond Anfield

By any measure, Nottingham Forest’s victory at Anfield should not have been an earthquake. Last season’s stumble was written off as a passing tremor—an aberration in Liverpool’s otherwise imperious home record. But this latest collapse did not feel like a blip. It felt like a diagnosis. And it revealed a truth Liverpool have refused to confront: Arne Slot’s champions are bleeding from more than one wound.

Forest did not merely win. They imposed themselves with a clarity and calmness that Liverpool have forgotten. Sean Dyche’s side arrived with a plan, executed it with conviction, and left with the biggest win at Anfield in the club’s history. Murillo, imperial in both penalty areas, Savona, lethal from full-back, and the brilliant Morgan Gibbs-White orchestrated a victory rooted in one precious commodity: control.

Liverpool, meanwhile, were a team trapped beneath their own weight. Eight losses in 11 matches. Six defeats in the last seven league games. Bottom half of the table. A second consecutive 3-0 embarrassment—the kind of capitulation not seen since 1965. Slot’s men did not collapse in one area; they collapsed in all.

The first half-hour promised order: high pressure, sharp passing, an Alexis Mac Allister header somehow blocked by Anderson. But once Forest landed their first punch, Liverpool disintegrated like wet paper.

Chaos by Design

This was not simply a bad day at the office. This was a team losing its identity.

Slot responded to the deficit with substitutions that mirrored the mood: frantic, confused, hopeful rather than purposeful. He launched forwards onto the pitch like someone scattering pebbles into a storm. Ekitiké, Chiesa, Ngumoha—all entered. None changed the rhythm. If anything, they exposed the team further.

Liverpool were no longer defending; they were improvising. And Forest, serene in their structure, simply waited for their moments. Gibbs-White’s late goal—calm, measured, inevitable—sent home fans to the exits before the ball had even kissed the net.

A Champion Playing Like a Stranger

How do champions fall this fast? How does a £400m summer yield so little coherence?

To understand Liverpool’s present crisis, you must look behind the scoreline and into the engine room—into the tactical machinery Slot has attempted to install.

1. A Build-Up That Builds Little

The departure of Trent Alexander-Arnold and the injury to Alisson Becker have destabilized Liverpool’s first act: playing out from the back.

Mamardashvili, left-footed and stylistically different, funnels possession into uncomfortable zones. Where Alisson would naturally find van Dijk—the team’s most composed outlet—the new keeper pushes play right, into the uncertain hands of Konaté, Bradley, or Frimpong.

This is not trivial. In modern football, the keeper dictates the direction, rhythm, and risk of a team’s possession. At Liverpool, that compass is now skewed.

Opponents know it too. They block the left, trap the right, and wait for Liverpool to fold. And without Alexander-Arnold’s two-footed audacity—his ability to open angles most players do not even see—the team is easily suffocated.

2. The Diminishing of Salah

For years the right flank was Liverpool’s heartbeat: Salah cutting inside, Szoboszlai pushing forward, Trent drifting into midfield to unpick defenses with the subtlety of a violinist.

This season that triangle has dissolved into static lines.

Salah now receives the ball with a defender clinging to his back rather than space ahead of him. The lanes are crowded, the midfield rotations chaotic, and the Egyptian is forced to play sideways instead of forward. His brilliance thrives on orientation—on facing goal, not retreat.

Liverpool have robbed their greatest weapon of the conditions that made him great.

3. A Press Without Purpose

Under Klopp, Liverpool pressed with the fury of a storm—collective, synchronized, suffocating. Under Slot, the team has adopted a more controlled 4-2-4 press, seeking a numerical advantage at the back.

The idea is modern. The execution is weak.

Because Liverpool keep four defenders deep to maintain the “plus one,” they often press with fewer bodies than the opponent can build with. Rival full-backs receive the ball freely, rivals link play comfortably, rivals escape pressure too easily.

Slot knows the weaknesses—his adjustment against Arsenal proved it—but he lacks the personnel or appetite to abandon his principles entirely.

Beyond Tactics: The Human Toll

Liverpool’s tactical problems are real. But they are not the whole picture.

The sudden, tragic death of Diogo Jota cast a shadow over Anfield far darker than any tactical malfunction. Slot himself acknowledged what everyone could see: this squad, this staff, this club is grieving.

Footballers are not machines. No training ground drill can erase trauma. No analytics can quantify emotional weight.

The slump is tactical, yes. But it is also existential.

The Verdict: A Club at a Crossroads

Liverpool’s decline is not a story of one weakness but many:

A destabilized build-up structure

A compromised press

A struggling Salah

A confused midfield rotation

A captain fighting fires everywhere but the right places

A grieving dressing room

And above all, a system that does not yet fit the players it commands.

Forest exposed these issues with ruthless efficiency. But they did not create them. Liverpool’s unraveling has been months in the making.

The question now is not whether Arne Slot can fix one problem. It is whether he can fix ten at once—and whether the club will give him the time to rebuild not just the tactics, but the spirit.

This, more than any scoreline, is Liverpool’s real crisis.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar