A long and protracted story concerning football.

I can remember the exact moment I became a Liverpool fan. I was in
my third or forth year, standing before my best friend Micheal
McQillian, biting my bottom lip. "...Why, which friggin team do you
support?" he had inquired in a tone laden with suspicion. The two twin
albino McQuillian cousins threw equally suspicous glares at me across
both Michaels shoulders. Standing in this cross fire of suspicion, I
shivered as sweat quickly appeared and disappeared on my thighs and
back, and nervously picked at a long thin scab on my arm as I
considered the options, of which there where two: Man United and
Liverpool. Man United because of my family, and Liverpool because of my
friends. I thought of my father, my uncles and cousins, and then looked
again at my friends. Little did I know but my life was about to
change.
"Liverpool", said I.
I am loathe to say this now, but had I been surrounded with members of
own blood, I would probably have been a different type of red, but I am
cannot be ashamed of my willingness to be influenced. At that age I
knew nothing of football, (and some would profess that this situation
has not changed,) but I also had a quality so alien to myself today
that I must have been a different person: I didn't care about football.
Not in the slightest. Liverpool V Everton derby: so what? FA cup final:
who cares?
When I began supporting Liverpool it was more of an affilitive action
than a team that I really cared about. At an age when I did not want to
seem different, the most distinct thing I could have done was not like
Football. I recall making a elaborate plan to find out what this
strange "hat trick" comprised of, without appearing ignorant. After
school when I was in P4, walking home with Micheal McConnell and Kevin
Tierney I asked "Wats a hat trick in Football". The question was
received with a loud chorus of "duh's",
"And wa? Tell me." I said.
Kevin looked to the sky and then at me, shaking his head.
"Its when ya score three goals."
"Nah!" I said, "Its when tha goalkeeper takes a Rabbit out of his
cap!"
Kevin laughed, but Micheal didn't, maybe he didn't find it funny,
maybe he knew, maybe he was thinking about cartoons, or sweets.
It wasn't easy being a Liverpool fan in my house either, as I was the
only one in the whole family I had to endure drunken onslaughts at each
family gathering. Years passed, and I kitted myself out with school
bags, pencil cases, bed spreads; all red and white, adorning the proud
image of the Liver bird. I equipt myself with nuggets of information to
get by in school, manager, striker, who Liverpool had beat, who had
beat Liverpool, but still I had no interest in football in me.
Then my Endocrine system kicked in, and things got hairy, deeper, and
grumpy. Suddenly grown men kicking a inflated sphere around seemed
appealing; even compelling. This feeling grew. Names and numbers of
other footballers of other teams, in other countries began to stick in
my head, more importantly: I started to care. Watching football now
caused to me emote in a big way, the physicality, the skill, and oh,
the drama; over the last 7 years I have 'Ooooh'ed and 'ahhhed'ed my way
through many games, and went onto mourning when the season ended.
During the bleak desolate times between seasons I sustained my appetite
with the scraps of pre-season friendlies, American and Australian
soccer, and ( god forgive me ) Irish league soccer. Opening days of the
season were greeted like a girlfriend coming back from a long holiday;
curtains were closed, the doors where locked, phones where switched
off, supplies gathered, "SkySports? Its just me and you baby."
Last year when liverpool won the FA cup in such a dramatic way, I
openly wept with happiness (drunk as a skunk of course), and I didn't
take my newly aquired liverpool shirt off for two days. My transition
from feigning interest, to devotee was complete....well nearly.
Only one thing remained. I had never visited Anfield. I never had been
given the opportunity, being from a home full of United supporters I
recall being offered as a child a chance to go to Old Trafford, to
which I declined. My father, as punishment from the lord for supporting
such a deplorable team returned from the United match with a broken
wrist, all mention of me going to Anfield was then taboo with my
mother.
Independence arrived, and I hardly noticed it. I was offered to a
chance to go to Liverpool V Middlesbrough in April of 2000, but I
couldn't get the time off work. Then a work colleague named Sean came
to me with a proposal,
"Liverpool V Grimsby, I can get tickets for the Kop! It'll cost us
next to fuck all for the flights, we'll just go on easyjet and then all
we'll have to worry about is somewhere to stay. I'll get the tickets
and tha flights on me ma's card. So, what do ya reckon Mark?"
I thought about this briefly. As it was the Worthington Cup it was a
midweek fixture so I would need to get time off work, but I had worked
in this place for sometime, if need be, strings could be pulled, but
jesus, tickets for the Kop. I couldn't turn it down.
"Aye Sean! Wack away. It shouldn't be a prablem."
"See if ye can get any of yer mates goin!"
I phoned Dan immediately, explained the situation and asked, "Would ye
be up for it?"
"Fuckin right. I still havent see them score a goal."
This was strange, Dan had been a number of times before, including
"..the Villa match. The score in that match was 3-1. Didn't ya see
Gerard score?"
"Nah. I was havin a piss when Gerard scored, and when I came back the
bastard got sent off." I started laughing.
"Hahaha! Your a fuckin scud McManus, but ya couldn't scud this one.
Its against Grimsby for fuck sake. Grimsby haven't won in their last 5
league games. And even so if things are looking "grim" (groans) we can
send you to the toilet."
"Well put my name down and let me know what's going on."
A couple of night later when I did phone him to let him know what was
going on, he gave me a long drunken rendition of 'You'll Never Walk
Alone'. Eventually he stopped singing, or the cat he was strangling
died.
"Did that bring a tear to your eye?" he asked.
"Well, they are certainly watering."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When we were about to go through the metal detector at the boarding
gate, the sweat was pouring out of me. I had a quater of hash between
my thumb and my palm. Generally people who walk around with hash in
their hands are paranoid people, and not wanting to go against that
stereotype, at some point walking through the airport I had decided
that the machine that checks your bags also has a hash detector. I am
fearful of the strip search. Laytex and my ass will never meet, as long
as I can help it. Whilst I was imagining flashing lights and sirens
Sean tapped me on the back, I jumped; turning to him I cursed the Bongs
I had taken before I left the house.
"Whats wrong with you?" Sean asked "You look a bit pale."
"Nathin. It must me somethin I ate."
"Just tellin ya that David Trimble is over there!"
"Shit. The Unionists are out to get me too. Where?"
"Haha! Over there."
I followed Seans gesture. Couldn't see David Trimble anywhere, but
there was John Hume being padded down. 'What type of weapon would John
Hume carry?' I thought to myself. His big pointy stick of diplomacy, or
maybe his axe of reason. I held back a giggle. Goddamn that bong.
I turned to Sean.
"You aren't talking about John Hume are you?"
We both walked foward to be padded down.
"I don't know, it same difference."
I gave him my most disparing look, and gave it to the man padding me
down. I remembered about the hash. Keep talking man.
"It most definitely is not the same thing there is a world of
difference." I was waved on. Success. Maybe this was Seans elaborate
plan to get past the security with the hash.
"Fuck it. I never watch the news." There was definitely no elaboration
in this plan. This was just someone who didn't watch the news.
"You never watch the news! Here man, politics here in Norn Iron is
like food or water, fundamentals, rules, things we need to survive. Our
culture is based on the polarity of our politics. What you just did was
like getting Jeffery Donaldson and Gerry Adams mixed up!"
"Who's Jeffery Donaldson?" Sean asked, he must have been messing with
me. Dan came up behind us.
"Look there's David Trimble in the Swalie Shop!"
I sighed a sigh of emmense proportions.
"The next shop we pass, im going to trade yuse two in for new
friends."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The flight from Belfast to Liverpool was in the air for about 20
minutes, and the flight cost forty quid. A bus from Andytown into the
centre of town cost 98p and takes about 40 minutes. Citybus received a
very harsh letter when I returned to Belfast.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We got out of our taxi on Anfield road about 5 minutes away from the
ground; hundreds of people were walking up the hill towards the
Stadium. After the taxi pulled away we stood in silence for a minute,
letting the crowd mill around us; we looked as if we had all seen a
ghost, but what we had seen was something far stranger. Then Dan voiced
what we where all thinking,
"Did we just get a taxi from Jim Royle?"
"Aye", Sean and I chorused.
He bore such a resememblance to Ricky Tomlinsons character out of the
television programme The Royle Family I had theorised that the
Liverpool council had employed lookalikes for the taxis. It wasn't much
of a theory I admit, but it seemed more plausible than Jim Royle giving
us a lift.
"He had the same laugh and everything...", said Sean shaking his
head.
I shuddered as I thought about a army of Jim Royle's standing beside
their black taxis. They all shout "Arse!" as they jump into their
wagons, to taxi people about Liverpool, and melt the heads of the
tourists.
"They should try something like that with Paisley in Belfast...", I
said absently.
"What?"
"I have an idea!" Dan said suddenly, "Lets go to the Liverpool match,
I heard that they were playing Grimsby tonite."
"Thats not a bad idea, im doing nothing better!"
"Right! Lets go yis bastards." Dan led the way into the throng of
people.
Walking up the road we were excitedly chatting to each other, our
speech intersped with laughter, but when we got to Anfield and walked
through the Stanley Gates, each of us stared up at the sign in gormless
silence; our eyes captivated by the words "You'll Never Walk
Alone."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So this is Anfield. I shivered as sweat quickly appeared and
disappeared on my thighs and back, and nervously fingered my ticket
stub; my head pivoted like a meercat.
The first thing that struck me was the sheer number of great goals I
had witnessed, just over there. The goalposts and nets, just over
there. If I had a big run and jump I could touch the net in front of
the Kop stand. Would I get thrown out? Would it be worth it? Sean
snapped me out of this fantasy by laughing at me.
"Hahaha! Look at you! Whats it like? Its amazing isn't it? Can you
belive were standing at the bottom of the Kop!"
No, I couldn't: Butterflies were having a feather pillow fight in my
stomach. The whole place seemed superimposed, more real than the
indivuals moving around the place, all shadows dispelled by the
floodlights, buzzing, electric; Ill defined Music and the general
hubbub echoed around Anfield, the noise was not loud enough to be
intrusive, but it was necessary for us to raise our voices, vocal
chords strained, nerves tingled, hair was standing up to be counted.
The place exuded excitement.
Sean led the way to our seats in row 13 just behind the goal. We got
settled and I broke the silence that I had maintained since entering
the ground.
"Wild." croaked I.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As the visiting team appeared on the pitch, I became aware of the
Grimsby fans sitting opposite us on the Anfield Road stand, 5000 in
all, and in good voice.
They were drowned out 10 seconds later as the Liverpool squad filed
out. As one, the kop rose to cheer the home side.
We all stared in schoolboy rapture as the team warmed up: heading,
crossing, shooting, running and saving. I would have paid the entrance
fee just to see this. Liverpool trained in front of the kop of course,
and a couple of stray crosses found their way into the stand. Dan
turned to sean and I and said,
"We're going to get gubbed up the head by football, wait to ya
see."
"Aye," Sean laughed, "I just hope Danny Murphy's not the one to strike
it!"
The laughing had stopped when the whistle was blown to start
Liverpools defence of the Worthington Cup.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Liverpool started brightly, the opening 5 minutes of the match seem to
indicate that many goals where going to be scored, with Murphy and
Hamann both having shots stopped on the way to the net. Then after 20
minutes, defender Vignal limped off the pitch with a fractured foot; 'a
bad omen if I had ever seen one', I thought to myself, but then
paranoia was rife so I put this thought to the back of my mind.
When the half time whistle was blown, Liverpool had brought the game
to Grimsby and peppered the visitors, but it was still 0-0. Frustration
had begun to set in. This was not the way the script was supposed to
go.
There has been a lot written about the Worthington Cup in recent
years, most of what has been written has concerned the status of the
cup; its recent incarnation is refered to as the Worthless Cup at
times. In this age of the Champions League, with huge sponsorship and
television rights, the revenue from the Worthington Cup is a small drip
in a large pool; It has become de valued because comparatively it has
no monetary value. This has been demonstrated starkly by Manchester
United fielding teams of no names and no bodies, simply put, it was not
taken seriously.
Being in Liverpool the day before the Match, and absorbing the local
media, it became clear that the club were going to take the Worthington
Cup seriously. Gerrard Houllier on the local radio explained how it
took a lot of pressure off the players the previous year opening an
automatic route into the UEFA cup, and how he felt a affinity for the
Worthington Cup as it was his first cup won in England. Also it
wouldn't have been a treble without it. So the Liverpoool team fielded
was quite a strong squad and comprised of a majority of internationals;
they were certainly capable of dealing with a Grimsby team who had let
in thirteen goals in their last four league games. Someone hadn't read
the lines, I was beginning to have a sneaky suspicion it was
Grimsby.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The second half got underway and Liverpools guns where blazing.
Straight from the kick off Murphy released Smicer with a fantastic pass
into the right of the penalty area in front of the Kop, but again the
shot was well blocked; McAllisters free kick flew over the wall to
bring a smart save from Danny Coyne; Litmanens overhead kick, saved;
Heskeys header, cleared off the line. The pressure that this Grimsby
team was experiancing was unreal, they were defending admirably, yet
the attacks they had put together could be counted on one hand, but
surely something had to give. In the final minute Liverpools Sami
Hypia, a rock in central defense, appeared to tackle Micheal Boulding
rather clumsily in the penalty area. As the referee waved play on I
marveled at my newly aquired ability to suck my testicles into my
body.
The whistle was blown for the end of normal time, the scoreline
remained at 0-0 despite relentless home pressure. We all sat in silence
for a minute, then I smaned as I thought of a possible explanation
for the goal drought we where witnessing. I turned to sean and
said,
"Its Dans fault."
Sean and I turned to Dan, who slowly nodded his head and reluctantly
admitted, "Aye, it probably is."
"Why?"
"E's never seen Liverpool score a goal live. Like when he went to the
Villa match he was having a piss when Gerrard scored..."
"And then he got sent off", Sean finished, then he started laughing;
"Neither have I."
"You havent what?"
"Seen Liverpool score a goal live!"
"Your shittin me!" I exclaimed, "I thought you been here
before?"
"I have! A couple of times, but I still havent seen Liverpool score a
goal. Not in person."
"So its both your faults then! Scuddin bastards! I feel I should have
been informed about this before now!"
"You havent seen a goal live either!" Dan retorted, "Your responsible
as much as us. Since when have you appointed yourself as Lord Luck!
More like Sir Scudalot!"
"Aye...well...thats beside the point...."
I mumbled my words into nowhere as the whistle for extra time
sounded.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fifteen minutes later, when the same whistle sounded for the end of
the first period of extra time, Liverpool had taken the lead by one
goal, but the goal had done nothing to allay the unease in the stand,
this was due to the nature of the goal. David Beharall was judged to
have handled the ball within his own penalty area, and Gary McAllister
converted the penalty with his normal authority. 1-0 to Liverpool. If
it stayed the way it was the celebrations would be subdued, but at
least there would be celebrations.
In the same way I belive the squad shared had similar feelings to the
fans: bewilderment that the plethora of opportunities they had created
had amounted to nothing, and a technical error by a Grimsby defender
had provided Liverpool with a lead. They possibly also felt that they
had done enough; I couldn't fault the work rate of any player on the
pitch, and from what I had seen, Grimsby goalkeeper Danny Coyne
definitely deserved to be man of the match.
This perception of 'job done' was possibly the reason that the loose
ball that entered the Liverpool area in the 114 minute wasn't picked
up, leaving Marlon Broomes to slot the equaliser home. Heads met hands.
1-1.
From all around me came the whispers of "penalty shoot-out", which was
looking likely as we entered the last minute of extra time. Then Paul
Jevons, who had joined Grimsby at the start of the year from Everton, a
lifelong Liverpool fan, took the ball out on the wide right, on his
knee, bounced it off his shin, and scooped the ball into the air from
30 yards out, it sailed above Chris Kirklands gloved hand, and dipped
under the Liverpool Bar. 2-1 to Grimsby. It was a stunning goal. At the
opposite end the Grimsby fans went crazy, and my view was obscured as
people rose to leave the stand. Thirty seconds later the referee blew
the final whistle. I had witnessed one of the biggest cup upsets in
football history, and it was my first trip to Anfield. Its a funny old
game.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Walking down the Anfield road in the throng of the crowd, I remembered
our secret weapon, I turned to Dan,
"We forgot to send you to the toilet, it could have been a different
story!"
Sean and Dan managed a half chuckle at this, but it was one of the few
exchanges we had on the way back to the Hotel. We were all eager to put
a nights sleep between us and that night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In some ways I feel that the result of that match was the best baptism
I could have so I could rightfully call myself a Liverpool fan. (But
you cant deny the irony of it being my first match. "How may goals do
you think we are going to score?" I remember asking.) Have you ever
been through an embarrassing experience with a friend and the episode
made you closer? I think something similar happened at this match;
because of my lack of interest in the past, I felt that I didn't
deserve to support football, and therefore Liverpool; this match
exorcised these feelings.
Walking home from the game we were disappointed, but our resolve as
Liverpool fans was strengthened, and it probably served to make it a
more memorable night. It also demonstrated many of the qualities I find
so attractive about football, the unpredictability of the game, the
drama, there was more drama in that match than there was goals. In a
way it is all tribalism, a "them and us" attitude that overrides
sensibility and reason to the extent that it is MORE than just a game,
but this all serves to enhance the experience. If it was just a game it
wouldn't matter, it wouldn't be real, but we where in pain at times
during that match, that was very definitely real. It brought us
together, thousands of people feeling the same thing. This is probably
footballs biggest strength, how we were all linked for 120 minutes, not
as isolated as we normally are. Of course this is something that
Anfield will tell you as soon as you walk through the gates and look up
at the sign and slowly read the words, "You'll Never Walk Alone."