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Dear Arne, I need to say this properly. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I called the football slow and boring. I’m sorry I said there was no intensity, no identity, and that the emotion had been drained out of Anfield. I’m sorry I complained that we sat off, played sideways, and looked like we’d rather keep the ball than actually go and win it. I’m sorry I said you only won the league with someone else’s team. I’m sorry I called you a one-season wonder and spent months measuring you against a standard no one was ever going to meet. I’m sorry I treated every quiet press conference and every measured answer as proof you didn’t care enough. I’m sorry about the substitution outrage. I’m sorry I acted like taking a young player off was a personal insult instead of a decision made in the moment. I’m sorry I turned every late goal conceded and every set-piece concession into evidence that you had no idea what you were doing. I’m sorry I blamed you for signings that didn’t work, injuries that piled up, and a dressing-room mood that soured in public. I’m sorry I decided the whole thing was your fault before the season had even finished falling apart. I said a lot of it loudly and I said a lot of it cheaply. That wasn’t fair. You won the league. You walked into a job that was always going to be thankless the moment results dipped. And I still spent months talking about you like you were the problem rather than a manager dealing with a squad that was coming apart. This is me saying I was wrong. Yours, Lewis