WHEN asked to explain man's innate desire to be frightened, Edgar Allan Poe once remarked that only when one is truly afraid can the joys of normality be fully appreciated.
It might be pushing a point beyond acceptable parameters to suggest that Liverpool's manager Roy Evans was quaking in his shoes on Saturday evening but, clearly, he will view home dates with Middlesbrough and Nottingham Forest over the next nine days with some trepidation.
For the third consecutive league game at Anfield, Evans' short journey from pitch side to soundproofed sanctuary has been undertaken to a crescendo of jeers and against a backdrop of angry, contorted faces.
Again the fingers jabbed accusingly, again it was all perfectly understandable.
There is still the deep rooted suspicion that Liverpool's effectiveness is quite considerably reduced when they find themselves standing toe to toe with a team which has not been enveloped by the traditional sense of foreboding once their bus has carried them across the threshold into Merseyside.
The sight of opponents stampeding towards them with a bewildering disregard for logic and reason, snatching the lead and then defending stoutly, cannot be wholly unfamiliar to Liverpool and yet, once again, they were strangely ill at ease with themselves.
They do not possess a natural ball winner outside their back line, which makes all the more painful each and every misplaced pass - and in losing a home game for the first time in more than a year, there were many.
Those who smugly have themselves marked down as learned students of football's tactical nuances have always lauded David Pleat for both the thoroughness of his preparation and his ability to second guess anyone. However, you do not have to be a genius to work out that Steve McManaman is the heartbeat of the modern Liverpool, nor overburdened with common sense to realise that to render him impotent is to improve dramatically your chances of achieving success.
This Sheffield Wednesday did by fair means, when using the policing skills of Peter Atherton, and by foul, whenever they called upon Dejan Stefanovic, a defender stripped of subtlety, whose tackles set McManaman rattling like a wire coat hanger in a stiff breeze.
"He is so important to them," said the admirable Atherton. "He is so intelligent and comfortable on the ball. He has been outstanding this season but, I believe I won the battle today."
McManaman didn't get a kick. A header, yes, but it was to strike the angle of crossbar and post and, with just 15 minutes remaining, it was to be Liverpool's fourth, and final, clear cut chance.
"We do need more options when McManaman is marked tightly because he just isn't going to get freedom in every game," said Evans after finally emerging from a dressing room which had reverberated to the sound of his rarely released fury. Long before Wednesday struck the telling blow midway through the opening half, the groans of discontent were cutting their way through a frozen afternoon.
As Evans said, for all Liverpool's possession and effort, there was an air of inevitability about this defeat. It was a messy goal but, the contributions of Atherton and Des Walker apart, it was a rather messy game. Pembridge's shot was drifting wide - well and truly wide - until Guy Whittingham's outstretched leg sent it spinning in off the fingers of goalkeeper David James.
As Liverpool's concentration wandered and their instinct for self preservation began to fade, Wednesday's infrequent raids began to hold increased promise and Booth almost doubled their advantage with a fine header which struck the crossbar.
