I love football. Always have, always will. In misty-eyed moments, my dad has been heard to talk of his regret that my enthusiasm for the game was never followed by much skill. My early achievements in the game were limited to the occasional appearance for the primary school team, though I will never forget the disappointment of not even getting on the bench for a cup final when I was in P5.
Happily, in my mid-20s, I did find some success. When I say success, what I mean is that I was involved with Erin Hibs FC, a team of Hibs fans that originated out of the old yahoo hibs-list email discussion thing. I played in the first ever game in 1998, which we lost 7-2 to the InterBears, but “retired” in 2001. Inbetween, we won national tournaments, both for the whole UK and for Scotland. This is not to say I was a key member of the team, but I got to play occasionally and still revel in the memory of my one and only goal at an 11-a-side level. It went in off my shin. Before my retirement at the tender age of 26 (another story entirely), I got to know some really great Hibbys, a couple of whom sit beside me these days in the West Stand at Easter Road, enduring misery after misery.
To wind back to those school days, this was the 1980s. Hibs were dreadful for the entire decade, apart from a brief flurry when Steve Archibald amazingly signed for us straight from Barcelona. While my loyalty to the Cabbage was never in doubt, my head was regularly turned by an English, who took to the field week-after-week in all red, demolishing everything put in front of them. When I ran around on the field at the end of my street, playing scratch games with all the other neighbourhood kids, it wasn’t Hibs that I was pretending to play for. It was Liverpool. It wasn’t every Hibs strip that I wanted, it was Liverpool strips.
My memory is a little fuzzy about where exactly this infatuation came from, by I think it probably originated around the time of the 1982 World Cup and relates to one player in particular.
The single greatest moment of my childhood was the day I discover thatKenny Dalglish and I shared the same birthday. To put it simply, he was my hero. The fact that the single greatest disappointment of my adulthood was reading his dreary autobiography is something I’ll skip over for the moment.
I remember the 1983 League Cup Final, the 1984 European Cup Final victory on penalties over Roma, the horrendous evening that was the 1985 Final and what happened in the Heysel, but redemption (for me at least, not for the 39 who perished that night) followed the next season when the Reds clinched the double for the first time in their history. By that time, Kenny was the player-manager, but scored the winner in the final league game of the season against Chelsea to clinch the title. The FA Cup Final victory the next weekend was even sweeter, all the better for being the same day the Maroon Mob from the other side of Edinburgh managed to end the season without a trophy, having been so close to their own double.
For the next few years, as Hibs threatened to be good for a bit, but not really getting anywhere (apart from Archie’s cameo), I religiously followed Liverpool’s results. Kenny’s team steamrollered to another league title in 1988,with Barnes and Beardsley pulling the strings, and seemed to be on-course for another glory-filled year the next season. Then came the events of 15th April 1989, that are commemorated today.
I remember that afternoon, I was 14 and following the afternoon’s football events via the medium of Grandstand. Precisely what was being covered the moment that the ominous voice announced that they were going over to John Motson at Hillsborough as there had been an incident in the crowd. What followed does not need to be repeated. The number gradually got worse and worse for the rest of the day and I have another memory of watching TV news the following morning, when it was estimated that there was now more than 100 lost. That the final toll was lower at 96 never did bring any comfort.
The outpouring of emotion across the country has only been seen on one occasion since, when Diana died, as football fans stood together across the lines that divided us, united knowing the awful truth. It could have been us. Brothers, fathers, uncles, sisters, mums, cousins, friends together, all thought they were going to watch a game of football. But some of them didn’t come home.
Kenny and his Liverpool team eventually played on that season, but I can’t begin to imagine how they felt. Bill Shankly’s old mantra that football was “not a matter of life and death, it’s more important than that” must have resonanted with a hollowness that knew no depths. They eventually beat Nottingham Forest in the cup semi-final that was halted at 3.06pm that fateful day, with most people wondering how Forest could even begin to try competing against the Reds. The country wanted an all-Merseyside cup final, and that’s what it got. The rest is well-known, Liverpool beat Everton 3-2 after extra time but lost the league in the last minute of the last game. No amount of emotion could prevent Michael Thomas from scoring the goal that broke so many hearts.
I loved Liverpool Football Club more than ever at this point. Hibs were still woeful, but Liverpool meant something more than 90 minutes on a Saturday. The title was reclaimed the following season, but as season 1990-1991 began to enter its final furlong, King Kenny decided he could no longer carry the burden of Hillsborough any longer and resigned. On the same day, my love for the club began to drip away. He was replaced by his old team-mate, Graeme Souness, a man now more known for his stint as manager of Rangers.
That summer, my family moved to Leeds and a new love became to insinuate its way into my life. It helped somewhat that the Lilywhites won the championship in the next season, the last before the creation of the Premiership. A team boasting an imperious midfield of Strachan, Batty, McAllister and Speed; a cameo from Eric Cantona and Lee Chapman banging in the goals. It felt a little bit dishonest leaving Liverpool behind, but Souness had them playing dreary football and the love was lost.
OK, I’ll admit that I wouldn’t exactly count myself as a Leeds fan these days. I look out for their results, but since I came to Edinburgh for university in 1993, my first love firmly lodged itself in my heart and I watch Hibs as often as I can. A season ticket empties my bank account once a year and it hasn’ been boring, though the football is currently of a dreary nature once again. South of the border, I have flirted with a pre-Abramovich Chelsea, but to be honest, the passion was never there.
But days like today, following on from the incredible game that took place at Stamford Bridge last night, are bringing me back around again. I feel like I am falling in love with Liverpool FC again. With that glorious red jersey and the never-quenched desire of terrific footballers like Gerrard, Torres and Carragher. Just because the club is again on the verge of greatness, finally challenging for the title again, doesn’t mean I am a glory hunter. I’ve got history and I’m proud of it.
Liverpool are synonymous with the song You’ll Never Walk Alone:
When you walk through a storm
Hold your head up high
And don’t be afraid of the dark
At the end of the storm
Is a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of the lark
Walk on through the wind
Walk on through the rain
Though your dreams be tossed and blown
Walk on walk on with hope in your heart
And you’ll never walk alone
You’ll never walk alone
But I feel that there’s a better song to end with. In the space of 24 hours in August 2001, two momentous events occurred that have shaped the last 8 years of my life took place. On a Friday evening, it became clear that my church was falling to bits, with a divide riven deep within the leadership team. Early the next day, I set off with my friends Dave, Sally and Ewan to see U2 play in Manchester. This gig was closest I’ve come to a religious experience at a gig, it was a worship evening first and foremost, and provided instant redemption. That night, and for most of the tour, they finished up with the song “Walk On”. Today, the people of Liverpool remembered all that they can’t leave behind.
