NINETEEN games. Seven months. Twenty-four hours. Eight minutes.
Ten years ago today, a long ball is pumped toward the halfway line with the Wigan Athletic midfield caught ball watching. Peter Crouch chests it down and within a single, fluid motion, he’s bearing down on the opposition penalty area. Anfield roars him on as he surges up field.
Three touches later, he strides through a gaping hole in Wigan’s defence. They back off and back off, and back off some more, and he shapes to shoot. The roar becomes a cacophony.
Fernando Morientes is to his right, Steven Gerrard is bursting through the middle and Harry Kewell to the left of the captain. Crouch has so much time, so many options, the weight of his 1,299-minute drought on his sizeable yet flimsy frame causes self-doubt. He makes two wrong decisions in quick succession.
James Dutton 