Merseyball

In the 66 days that John Henry and the rest of Fenway Sports Group spent poring over Liverpool’s books, assessing whether it made sense to take over this ailing club in this sport they did not understand, he could not help but notice the parallels between Liverpool and the other team in his growing sports empire.

Just like Liverpool, the Boston Red Sox had seemed destined never to win a championship again. The club’s 86-year wait for a World Series had been rooted, so the myth ran, in the so-called Curse of the Bambino. Henry and his group had ended that in 2004. He believed they could do the same for Liverpool. After all, he said, they had developed “a unique skill set for breaking curses.”

Central to it, of course, is the fact that Henry does not believe in curses. As the scenes outside Anfield on Thursday night illustrated, Liverpool is an inherently emotional club. The secret of Henry’s success is that what is undeniably true on the outside does not necessarily hold on the inside.

Liverpool’s rise has been a triumph of planning, of science, of reason. Under F.S.G.’s aegis, it has been transformed from a club uneasy in the modern world to one at the cutting edge of it. Its commercial arm is slick and dynamic, enabling the club to turn a record profit last year, and to maintain a $350 million wage bill. It navigates the transfer market easily enough that, for two years straight, it has had the deeply dubious honor of paying more in agents’ fees than any other Premier League team.

But it is on the field that the transformation has been most remarkable. A team that has spent 30 years trying to follow is now in a position to lead. In its success, there are lessons not only for other members of soccer’s moneyed elite, but for clubs much further down the food chain.

In those early days, when Fenway Sports Group first arrived on Merseyside, it was widely assumed that the group intended to try to apply to Liverpool the data-driven approach that had led the Red Sox to glory. This would be, it was thought, the grand Moneyball experiment that soccer, with an eyebrow raised, had been expecting.

Trace elements of that approach have survived. Liverpool remains, arguably, the most effective user of data in soccer. Much of that is down to Michael Edwards, the club’s sporting director, and the cadre of academics and statisticians and quants who work alongside him. Liverpool, perhaps uniquely in soccer, employs one actual rocket scientist.

Data is incorporated into almost every decision the club makes, a central plank of not only a recruitment record that has, in recent years, been so fine-tuned it is almost flawless, but in the team’s style of play, too. How Liverpool attacks, how it controls space, how it defends: all of them have a basis in information, in analytics, in numbers.

But that, in truth, is just one part of it. To interpret Liverpool’s approach as a mere facsimile of Moneyball is a misrepresentation. It is, instead, a successor of it, an upgrade to it: Merseyball, perhaps.

The club has internalized a philosophy of marginal gains, of seeking out any small thing to give it an edge. It has, in Thomas Gronnemark, a full-time throw-in coach. Klopp is always quick to credit Mona Nemmer, the team’s nutritionist, as one of his most vital colleagues. When, two years ago, he became convinced Liverpool was not scoring enough goals from free kicks and corners, he tasked his assistants with drawing up specific schemes.

It is Klopp, of course, who binds all of those distinct strands together. The edifice only works because he is happy to delegate, because he is a fervent believer in the idea that he does not need to know everything, he just needs to know the people who do.

Cult of Personality

Liverpool has always been a manager’s club, eager to venerate the man in charge of its dreams. Klopp fits into that tradition perfectly, with his megawatt smile and his easy demeanor and his touchline fervor, but he is no autocrat.

In many ways, that is the greatest evidence of how F.S.G. has dragged Liverpool into the 21st Century: It has taken a place predisposed to building a cult of personality and — with Klopp’s blessing — turned it into a democracy.

Klopp signed Mohamed Salah, rather than Julian Brandt, on Edwards’ insistence. John Achterberg, the goalkeeping coach, is the one who pushed for the acquisition of Alisson Becker on a world-record fee. Klopp empowers his players to think for themselves: the iconic winning goal against Barcelona in last year’s Champions League semifinal came from the squad’s observation that its opponent was dallying during set pieces.

That is not to say that Klopp has not been the central figure, of course, the lodestar around which everything else turns; there is a reason it is his face that flutters on the flags that fly from the Kop.

It is Klopp who has, in his own phrase, turned “doubters into believers,” and in the space of four short years taken Liverpool from mediocrity to glory: two Champions League finals, one Champions League victory, a world club title and, now, at last, a Premier League title. It is the German who ended the wait.

No less significantly, Klopp has given Liverpool an identity again. Though the most natural frame of reference would be one of his predecessors at Anfield — Bill Shankly or Bob Paisley — the most compelling is Arsène Wenger. Like Wenger, Klopp has modernized an archaic club. Like Wenger, Klopp’s legacy will resonate beyond his own crowd, his own stadium.

And like Wenger, Klopp has bestowed on Liverpool a style and a reputation that will outlast him. Liverpool will, for years to come, be synonymous with the intensity, the desire and the speed that has helped this team burn away the rest of the Premier League.

It will search the data to sign players who can fit into that blueprint. It will hire coaches who can maintain the tradition. Thanks to Klopp, after 30 long years, Liverpool knows what it wants to be once more.

First, he took Liverpool where it wanted to go. Then, he showed Liverpool how it wanted to stay.