IT WAS not without some discomfort that Liverpool last night placed, hesitantly and unconvincingly, one foot in the semi-finals of this season's Cup Winners' Cup.
If the one major European trophy to have so far eluded the Merseysiders is to adorn Anfield's museum come mid-May, they will be required to perform with a good deal more panache than was evident in Norway.
Naturally, they will be confident of finishing the job on home soil in a fortnight's time, but they would do well to remember that bigger, far more demanding tasks lie ahead. This was never a comfortable evening for Liverpool and if the result was just about satisfactory the performance most certainly was not. They coped only reasonably well with an attack which was quick to sense even the merest hint of unease.
Removing the injured Mark Wright from Liverpool's defensive equation always serves to pose questions rather than provide answers for he is one of only a handful of centre-backs capable of offering leadership by way of finesse rather than brute force.
Brann do remind the neutral of an ambitious First Division club, a nervous bundle of collective energy which perplexingly holds the potential to be naive one moment, sublime the next. A confusing cocktail, indeed, it won Liverpool eventually found to their liking.
In omitting Stan Collymore Liverpool hinted at limited ambition, but they are so well-versed in these matters it is foolish to criticise. They moved forward gamely at every opportunity, cleverly using Patrik Berger as a bridge between midfield and lone striker Robbie Fowler. Had Brann's overall professionalism embraced clinical finishing they certainly would have fared better, but on the biggest night in the 89-year history, they were to discover that when the nerve-endings are frayed creating chances is one thing, taking them quite another.
Everything, but everything, was lofted forwards in the general direction of Tore Andre Flo, an ungainly it talented striker who was last night watched by Bolton Wanderer's manager Colin Todd and Arsenal scout Don Mackay.
The game meandered rather than flowed. Indeed, at the precise moment Liverpool's ponderously slow football was being jeered to" the echo they struck to silence, both the brass bands and their critics amongst a full house.
It was a truly wonderful goal, one born out of outrageous improvisation and breathtaking skill. As Stig Inge Bjornebye's pass fell out of the night sky, Fowler lifted it up and over the head of the onrushing Ludvigsen with one, deft flick of his right boot.
Ludvigsen did not even bother to chase back. He stood, as if in admiration, as Fowler sprinted clear to finish precisely with a low drive. A marvellous moment.
Thereafter, Liverpool occasionally flirted with the idea of caving in at the back, but for so long hitting an often unprotected target did seem beyond Brann as both Flo and Moen missed relatively simple chances.
They kept plugging away, though, and a more compelling second half was barely two minutes old when they drew level. It was straight forward enough, too, Geir Hasund finding the cop corner with a sweet, sweet shot from the edge of the penalty area.
With honours even the tie - slowly but surely - surrendered its impetus and its appeal, although Flo should have done far better than merely strike the body of James five minutes from the end after another calamitous blunder by Ruddock.
