LIVERPOOL is a city which wears its heart on its sleeve so vociferously that "You'll Never Walk Alone" can sound more like a threat than a community call to arms, especially if you stray off the tourist track and into the territory inhabited by real-life Albie Kinsellas.

Yet, for the next few days at least, as tens of thousands of visitors join the throng of Turf lovers at the Grand National meeting at Aintree, there will be nothing ambiguous about the emotions directed towards the great AP McCoy. Quite simply, this annual congregation will pay untethered homage to one of the maestros of racing and bid a fond farewell to a quiet genius, who has combined sublime equine skills with a shy appreciation for the acclaim which has been showered in his direction.

At 40, the jockey who won the 2010 event on Don't Push It has lived up to the title of his mount and is retiring on his own terms. If he triumphs again on Saturday, that will be it. AP will be saying AR or Au Revoir to the whole business of steering his beloved horses round treacherous circuits, both in the big-time spotlight and on dank Tuesday afternoons where the bookies outnumber the spectators. Heaven only knows how the crowd will react if he gains a second success over Becher's Brook and The Chair: with 150,000 racegoers and a television audience of 500 million people expected to tune in for the late-afternoon's action, there could be enough tears generated to create a tsunami. And then McCoy will do what he has always done, smile gracefully, and find another challenge for the rest of his life.

It's in stark contrast with the fashion in which another talismanic Liverpool figure, Steven Gerrard, is bowing out at Anfield and one wonders again about the manner in which some athletes time their exits at the ideal moment while others can't let go and end up sullying their reputation. For every Jackie Stewart, who realised he had gained sufficient prizes (and attended enough funerals of friends and rivals), there is a Michael Schumacher, who found life tedious outwith the domain where he had hogged the headlines for so long and foolishly returned with his determination undiminished, but his opponents no longer daunted by his powers. I suppose it's human nature to crave attention and one can understand why some people seem to think they can ignore Father Time's alarm call, as if they were exempt from the normal rules. But when somebody pushes their luck, and ignores the evidence in front of their own eyes, it usually ends in rancour and recrimination.

McCoy doesn't have to worry about these things. Come the weekend, he will be participating in a record-breaking 20th National, in this instance on Shutthefrontdoor, and he has no thoughts now beyond exuding the rare combination of pragmatism, professionalism and perfectionism, which has established his name in the pantheon for ever. If his swansong isn't at Aintree, it will happen after he formally wins his 20th successive title at the jump-racing season's finale at Sandown Park later this month. Yet the amazing fact is that he could carry on for another two, three tears and one suspects his majesty would be maintained. In short, he is departing at the height of his powers, even though it doesn't get any easier to prepare to risk injury and incident when you have already attained everything you can possibly achieve.

Gerrard, by comparison, remains as committed as ever to prolonging his career. But the man who could once transform matches - for good - through the sheer force of his personality, has lost some of the lustre and derring-do which used to terrify those on the other side. There was a red mist in his eyes when he lunged into Manchester United's Ander Herrera at Anfield a couple of weeks ago and, akin to Zinedine Zidane's dismissal in a World Cup final or Ian Botham's last match as England captain, there was a stunned, disbelieving silence as he trudged off centre stage. Worse still, this wasn't a one-off indiscretion from an individual, who has never taken a backward step and who almost single-handedly orchestrated Liverpool's epic recovery from trailing 3-0 after 45 minutes in the Champions League final a decade ago.

Instead, and gradually, but inexorably, Gerrard has faded into the periphery, without accepting or acknowledging it, even as his team struggles. To some extent, it would be understandable if a journeyman professional grasped the chance to embrace one last big payday, whether that came in Australia or Japan or in America's MLS. But why on earth would somebody of Gerrard's exploits, both at club and international level, and on the grandest stages, whether in Europe or in the World Cup, choose to travel all the way to LA Galaxy in a playing capacity? He can't do anything in America to enhance his stature, so what is it? The anxiety that, minus football and the chummy playground camaraderie of the dressing room, there might be a massive void in his life? Well, he wouldn't be the first.

McCoy has seen it all before. And, however graciously he accepts the paeans of praise from the hordes at Aintree, he knows inside he has nothing left to prove or accomplish. He isn't greedy and his humility isn't feigned.

Gerrard, on the other hand, can't call it quits and won't acknowledge the inevitable. Sadly, given what we've seen in the last few months, that can only mean a few others suffer in similar vein to Herrera.