An obvious way to recount Jürgen Klopp’s time as manager of Liverpool, one of the grandest clubs in the world’s most popular sport, is in titles and accolades. Between his first match in 2015 and his last on May 19th, he won seven major trophies. But a neater encapsulation of the German coach’s impact lies in a pair of gestures. Together they form a pictographic guide to management in football and beyond—and even to a philosophy of life.
The first gesture is an alpha-male expression of triumph. After big wins at Anfield, Liverpool’s home ground, Mr Klopp skipped over to the Kop, a grandstand which, even at a club followed more fervently than most, is known for its passionate supporters. To adoring roars, he punched the air once, twice, three times. Then he thumped the Liverpool badge on his chest. The fist pump was both a party and a promise. We did it—and we’ll do it again.
Mr Klopp’s other signature move—a bear hug—befitted commiseration as much as celebration. He hugged his players whether they won or not. He hugged them whether they performed well or badly (or didn’t get onto the pitch at all). Often he hugged the opposition, generally after beating them.
It helped that he is extremely tall, so enveloped his footballers as a father might his sons. His less rudimentary qualities include a superstar charisma, usually on show in media appearances and, joyously, when Liverpool scored. He sprinted up the touchline to embrace his team, spectacles flying, teeth beaming in a 1,000-watt smile. La Gazzetta dello Sport, an Italian paper, called him “Liverpool’s fifth Beatle”.
Beneath the exuberance is a tactical mastermind. Mr Klopp’s style of football combined innovation with a kind of mad energy. In his Liverpool teams the full-backs, notionally defenders, were the most creative players. He mostly forswore fielding an old-school striker, instead relying on darting wingers for goals. Often players join megaclubs like Liverpool and quail. Under his tutelage, stars became better and unknowns became stars.
However long the odds, he insisted there was a way to win. And win Liverpool did, sometimes in adversity. They came back from 3-0 down against Lionel Messi’s Barcelona en route to clinching the Champions League, Europe’s biggest prize. Amid an injury blight, a team made up largely of juniors claimed a domestic cup. In 2020 Liverpool secured their first English league title for 30 years. After special victories, manager and players joined the fans in singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, the emotive club anthem which, as Mr Klopp noted, is “a little bit like a prayer”.
Yet it wasn’t all fist pumps and trophies. Most football teams never win anything. Mr Klopp’s won a lot (as his previous sides did in Germany); but they also fell short in agonising circumstances. Powered by petrodollars, Manchester City twice pipped him to the English Premier League title on the season’s last day. Twice his men were beaten by Real Madrid in the Champions League final, the first time after Mo Salah, his top scorer, was fouled out of the game and his goalie was elbowed in the head.
As online footage attests, within hours of that disappointment Mr Klopp was defiantly singing about bouncing back. He knows how much football matters—and how little. “Somebody said that football is a matter of life and death,” another feted Liverpool manager, Bill Shankly, famously remarked. “It’s more important than that.” In Mr Klopp’s formulation it is “the most important of the least important things”: enrapturing, but only a game, and meant to be fun.
That is a wise perspective on football, and on failure. “If we can do it, wonderful,” Mr Klopp told his players before that ineffable match with Barcelona. “If not, then fail in the most beautiful way.” Assuring people that defeat is okay can empower them to take risks, thus making them likelier to succeed. But Mr Klopp also knows that failure is not shameful but inevitable, and can even be glorious. As Samuel Beckett once put it: “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”
The fist pump and the hug—the one-two embodies the methods of a coach who leaves an outsize impression on English culture. More than that, it captures a deep purpose of sport. Yes, it can teach you how to win: the tenacity required, and the teamwork, and the luck. But, given that most people are not world champions, on or off the pitch, the corollary of that lesson may be more useful. As much as winning, sport teaches you how to lose, and carry on.
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