Will I never walk alone? Maybe Mo Salah will show me the way…

Written by: Adem Çalhanoğlu

Edited by: Thuth Htet San

There’s something about the image of a perch. It’s a simple word, but it carries weight. For a hawk, it’s a throne, a place to watch the world before descending with purpose. For Liverpool Football Club, it was always a symbol of our place in the world. Bill Shankly said our club was built to sit on that perch, and for so long, it felt like we’d been knocked off it. This season, finally, the Liver bird is back where it belongs. Not with a quiet hop, but with a full, roaring return to the top. Champions of the Premier League. And this time, we were all there to see it.

The 2019-20 season was supposed to be our moment. On paper, it was perfect. Jürgen Klopp’s team was a relentless red machine, steamrolling everyone. But something vital was missing. The Kop was a sea of empty seats, its voice stolen by a global pandemic. The title we’d waited thirty years for was celebrated through glass, on screens. It was a victory of numbers, not noise. It was beautiful, but it felt cold, like a body without its soul. That’s why this title, this 2024-25 win, feels so different. It feels like the resurrection of something spiritual, not just statistical.

A lot of that is down to Arne Slot. When a legend like Klopp leaves, there’s a collective breath held, a fear of the vacuum he’ll leave behind. Klopp wasn’t just a manager; he was the club's beating heart. Slot, however, didn’t come to tear it all down. He came to refine, not reinvent. His approach felt less like a revolution and more like a quiet evolution. He kept the framework of Klopp’s genius but tweaked it, smoothed the edges. The pressing was still there, but smarter. The midfield finally looked settled. And the result was a title in his very first season. A torch passed, not dropped.

And through it all, one man shone with a light that felt almost blinding: Mohamed Salah. It’s incredible that after all these years, he’s still finding new levels. This was maybe his most complete season ever. He scored 29 goals and provided 18 assists, staggering numbers even today. He didn't just win the Golden Boot, he won the Playmaker award too - a double so rare it feels like a myth. This wasn’t the raw, explosive Salah of his first season. This was a master at work, gliding through defences with an effortless grace. He knew exactly when to pass, when to shoot, and he never looked desperate. The people who called him a “one-season wonder” all those years ago must feel a bit silly now.

But football, like life, is never just about the good times. It’s a story woven with joy and profound heartache. This season gave us both. We had to say goodbye to Trent Alexander-Arnold. A lad who was Liverpool through and through, from a boy in the academy to a legend on the right flank. He’s gone to Real Madrid on a free, chasing that famous white shirt. It hurts, not with bitterness, but with the quiet sadness of seeing family move away. We’ve been here before with Owen, with McManaman, with Alonso. Madrid is a siren’s call, and Trent answered. I’ll watch him from afar and wish him well.

That pain, however, was nothing compared to the tragedy that struck us in the summer. What made it so unbelievably cruel was that it came right after the high of winning the title. On July 3rd, Diogo Jota was killed in a car accident. He had been married for only a week,was rushing back to Liverpool to regroup with the team for the new season. The news just didn't feel real. A player so full of life and tenacity, so crucial to our attack, just gone. It cast a dark shadow over everything. How do you celebrate a new season when you’re still mourning one of your own, especially when his death came so soon after such a moment of collective joy? It was a brutal reminder that these players are not just assets on a pitch. They are sons, brothers, and husbands.

It makes me think about my own journey with this club. I was born the year before the Miracle of Istanbul. I was too young to understand it, but I have these flashes in my memory of red shirts, confetti, and a man with scruffy hair lifting a huge, silver trophy. I didn’t know his name was Steven Gerrard. I didn’t know what the Champions League was. I just knew it mattered. That image is burned into my mind. It made me a fan, but more than that, it made me feel like I was part of a family.

Since then, what a ride it’s been. When Mo Salah joined in 2017, it felt like the start of something special. But the 2018 final in Kyiv still leaves a scar. Seeing Ramos wrestle him to the ground, dislocating his shoulder, felt like a personal attack. We lost, Karius had his nightmare, and it felt like the world had conspired against us. I just felt numb. But even amidst that darkness, the club finds a way back. Then there was the 2020-21 season, a complete disaster of injuries where we had twelve different centre-back pairings. Yet from that chaos, we got one of the most magical moments in football history: Alisson Becker, our goalkeeper, scoring a last-minute winner with his head. I screamed so loud I couldn’t speak for a week.

Nothing, though, will ever top the 4-0 against Barcelona. “Corner taken quickly… ORIGI!” It was nearly 3 a.m. here in Vietnam, and I was huddled under my covers, trying not to wake my family. When Gini Wijnaldum scored two goals in two minutes, I gave up on being quiet. By the time Divock Origi sealed it, I was crying into my pillow. It was a pure, unscripted belief. It was resurrection.

Now, we look to the future. The arms race continues. We’re linked with Jeremie Frimpong to replace Trent, and the brilliant Florian Wirtz from Leverkusen. City, Arsenal, and the others are all spending fortunes. Except for Manchester United, who seem to be enjoying their ongoing identity crisis. You don’t win this league by chance anymore. But Liverpool has more than just money or players. We have a purpose, and we have Klopp’s words still echoing in our ears: “You have to change from a doubter to a believer.” That was never just a soundbite; it’s our way of life.

Maybe that’s why this club means so much to so many of us, especially those of us who feel like we’re on the outside looking in. Liverpool is a city built on defiance, a place that has always stood up for itself. Scouse, not English. As someone who is half-Turkish and half-Vietnamese, I get that. I understand what it’s like to have an identity that doesn’t fit neatly into a box. Liverpool doesn’t apologise for what it is. It gives people like me a story to believe in.

It’s something I wish more fans, especially here in Asia, could understand. So many just follow whoever is winning, wearing the shirt one week and changing it the next. They’re glory hunters. They know the stats, but they don’t know the stories. They know the trophies, but they don’t know the tears. They’re missing the whole point: You don’t support Liverpool to guarantee victory; you support Liverpool to feel like you belong.

In a life that often feels uncertain, where I feel like I’m navigating without a map, this club is my anchor. It shows me how to face the storm, how to rebuild, how to lose someone and still carry on, how to believe again. As long as I have this club, and the community of fans who sing through the rain with me, I know I will never, ever be truly alone. And in this world, that’s more than enough.