This blog entry is a re-publication with kind permission from it's author Owen Serjeant (@O_TheRed) - a good friend to The Honourables
We feel that it is highly relevant to the way in which current fans view the club that they support. This article originally appeared on the FromTheKop.com website as part of the buildup to the Reds Rose Walk in 2012.
We are very proud to be able to reproduce this article and thank Owen for his permission.
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WHY DO WE SUPPORT LIVERPOOL…
His welfare is of my concern
No burden is he to bear
We'll get there
For I know
He would not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother
Why do we support Liverpool FC? Why do we support the men in Red? These are questions I haven’t really thought of, I’ve had no real reason to until I took a closer look at the From the Kop Web Site.
If you look at the bio material of each of the Walkers for the Red’s Rose Campaign, there’s a question asked of them…”LIVERPOOL SUPPORTER BECAUSE?” The answers are as varied as the people are on the walk.
There are ties to Liverpool through family members, there’s affection for an individual player that led to an ongoing and deep love for LFC. There’s the bond that’s been created from the amazement and exhilaration coming from seeing the Kop in full cry. There’s a boy, now a man who is following his father in the devotion he has shown for the club over decades of support.
This only represents a few of the reasons. The more people you will ask, the more variety there will be in the answers. This is especially true with the global fan base we have. We have supporters from Leicester, Middlesborough even. I lived in North Yorks for a while and travelled back for the games.
When crossing the M62 you could see coaches from all over the UK going to the match. My wife, a blue who thinks she is funny and has this perverse belief in the “people’s club” rubbish would like to point out…”There’s a coach from Lincoln”, “Look, another one from Hull” etc, etc…so witty. In reality I thought it was great and seeing all those coaches, full of people of all ages, made me even more proud of the club I love and support.
The fan base is much further afield though. Often we say that the global fan base is a legacy of the Sky era and Istanbul. Of course there is some truth to that but its not always that simple. We had a worldwide following before that.
A lad in Shanghai or Singapore may be wearing an LFC shirt because he’s seen Steven Gerrard score in a Cup Final, or he may have seen that magic in Istanbul. Then again maybe his dad was a seafarer who found himself in Liverpool one cold weekend and saw the passion of LFC fans in town, singing and having a bevy. From that point he was a fan and passed that onto his family. Maybe it was because of a Scouse sailor passing through a strange exotic port whose talk of a love for a city and a football team over a few whiskey’s stirred an interest in locals that then became their love.
Who knows why? They are Liverpool supporters now and they are all welcome.
Despite what some may say, you don’t have to have an L in your postcode to be a Liverpool fan in my opinion. I’m proud to come from a city and support a football club that has a “big tent” principal and all are welcomed.
Is this any different from other football clubs? I have a great friend who is an Oldham fan. Has been all his life and follows them home and away…I love his joke “The announcer at Oldham, before the game, announces the fans to the players”. I ask him why he supports them when down the road there is City and United. He looks at me strangely, what sort of question is that. “I’m Oldham and that’s all there is to it”. So of course we are not the only ones with passion for their club. Is it more, is it stronger, is it more unique than others. That debate though is not for here.
I respect true fans everywhere but the question is “Why do we support Liverpool”…perhaps my reason is more traditional but it’s my why and I’d like to share that in support of the great cause being represented by True Reds who are walking 96 miles. Here goes…
I had no choice but to support Liverpool, not that I put up a fight at all. It was preordained in that my Dad was a Red as was his. My Dad passed away a few years ago after a brief fight with cancer in a special place and hospital…Clatterbridge on the Wirral, looked after by Angels dressed as Nurses and Doctor’s of the highest order. Dad was born in 1932 in the very centre of Liverpool, by the Bull Ring for those who know the area. His Dad was born in the early 1900’s…his Dad (my great, great grandfather) would have been born around the 1880’s and would have been in his early teens in March 1892 when Liverpool Football Club was officially formed. Was he a fan, did he watch the new Reds, I don’t know, but I’ll dream that he did. I know my grandfathers (on my Mum’s side as well) watched Liverpool. That would have been in the days of Elisha Scott and by the time Dad was born we’d won the League 4 times, so it was perfectly natural that Pop would “jump on the bandwagon” and support Liverpool FC.
Dad would tell me stories that he watched Liverpool before WW2. I’d love to belief it but I can’t imagine a 7 year old wearing hand me down shoes hiking the few miles from town to Anfield and back. Lovely thoughts though. He did however start to watch the Men in Red after the war. He left school at 14 to start work for the Railway (eventually working his whole life for the Railway, retiring 50 years later in much the same job as he started). So in 1946 he had a few bob for himself to start his lifelong love affair with LFC in earnest.
This is a picture of my Dad when he started work with his horse for delivering parcels…Dad was Big O…it was a family tradition to name your son after you. So I was Owen as well…and Little O…his brother was Harry…Big H and his son, yes Little H…the Big/Little stayed with us forever, and even now my aunties call me Little O.
So this is Dad then as he begins his personal Liverpool Odyssey that he passed onto me 30 years later. Dad watched the Reds home and away, with the odd European trip thrown in (mum and pennies allowing). He saw LFC through good and bad times including relegation in 50’s. First Manager he would have seen would have been George Kay. This is a photo I picked up from a book…
This is George Kay and the LFC team walking on their way to training. You didn’twant to get in the way of this mob…Shanks pony was the preferred method of transport, not a Bentley or Ferrari to be seen…I bet you, they’d have jumped at the chance to get on me Dad’s horse and wagon.
The 40’s and early 50’s rumbled along, not much for Dad to get excited about…a League win in 47 and a loss in the FA Cup to Arsenal in 1950. He did though have the opportunity in that period to watch Stubbins, Paisley and Liddel.
Nice Pic of Bill L doing a strange jump. This is a trait of Liverpool forwards as you will see in later pics
But then catastrophe struck as he described it…relegated. I remember him talking about it. He would have been in his early 20’s, not yet married, still with the Railway, still boozing in Ma Edgy’s at the back of Lime Street. But his world caved in, as he said, seeing his team relegated and now to play in the 2nd Division for the first time in 50 years. Disaster, but he said it had been some time coming, we had really struggled since winning the league in 47. That though did not affect his love for the club, nor did he stop watching, far from it, the next 5 years or so where good for the “aways” he said. Since he worked for the Railway as did most of his mates, they got free rail travel to most places. And if you look at the Div 2 table at that time there were lots of teams within a 100 miles of Liverpool. In that time bonds of friendship were formed
on the back of supporting LFC, bonds that would last a lifetime.
The good times were about to start though. Bill Shankly came to our rescue and we were promoted….Big Ron receiving the 2nd Division Trophy.
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| Shanks looking on at his “colossus” |
The 60’s for Dad were heaven. His two kids were born. He was able to move from me nans (Mum’s mum) in L8 out to a small terraced house in the unknown Northern reaches of Liverpool – Bootle. The house was owned by the Railway but used for employees and he was made up, although mum had hardly felt she had found paradise…she missed L8. Fortunately the Number 1 bus was still running that would take you down the Dock Road from Bootle and drop you off at the bottom of Hill Street in L8 were my Nan lived. Dad wasn’t too bothered. LFC were in the first Division and he could manage me mum when it came to footy, or so he thought…this became a constant for my sister and I over the next 30 years as the two of them battled over who was more important, his kids or LFC…I knew the answer.
One other thing asked of the Red Rose Walkers is “FIRST LIVERPOOL MATCH ?”…I honestly can’t remember mine, I wish I could but I can’t. I know Dad was taking me in the latter part of the 60’s (he had to, to placate mum and she knew, or thought, he’d be back from the pub early if I was with him). I remember seeing Man Utd at the time, a couple of times and I can remember other games, but I can’t honestly say what was my first game. This really bugs me. I knew where I was in the ground though. Dad shared a season ticket with a mate in the old Kemlyn. If he wasn’t there, he would be in the Kop, unless I was with him in those early years and he would take me in the Paddock. The end nearest the Kop, you would come in and there was a wall alongside the entrance. We’d get there in good time so he could sit me on that. All’s I could ever think was how brilliant it was, you had a great view of the Kop falling down that great terrace as one mass, and of course Dad was there to keep me safe and on the wall. That was it for me, I’d found love of LFC at 7 years of age, and I knew my Dad was my hero with whom I’d share loads of good times in the years ahead with LFC at the core of them.
My real first memory though of Dad and Footy was the 65 Cup Final. By then we’d moved to flats just across from Stanley Road in Bootle and before the “New Strand” was built. I can just remember Mum bouncing off the walls on the Saturday night after the Cup Final had long finished.
“Where is that B*****D”….”No money, we’re skint, and he’s galavanting down in dat London”…(ok she never said dat, but I think its funny) Saturday night came and went then late Sunday afternoon, after having a few pints on Brownlow Hill, when he got into Liverpool from London, to get his courage up, Dad shows up.
I realized then in the next few hours, who the boss of the house was.
Trouble in the homestead was not always about the match. My haircuts for some reason caused the odd bout of friction…One of Dads favorite players was Ian St John
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| Another picture of a Liverpool forward in a strange pose. |
At that time the Saint would stop off on his way to/from Anfield to get his hair cut in a barber’s on Stanley Rd. It just happened to be the one Dad would take me for mine. Me Mum was fastidious on how my sister and I looked. They may not have had two pennies to rub together but what they had they gave to us. Mum would tell me Dad to take me for a haircut and “get him a Tony Curtis” cut...Dad and I would go, once in a while we’d see the Saint. The barber would say to me “Do yer want yer hair cut like St John’s lad”…of course I’d say yes. Now I was about 5 or 6, had no idea who Tony Curtis was, nor any idea that there was substantial difference between said Curtis’s hair and the hairdo of my Dad’s hero St. John…but the Mother of his children did. We’d come back…”what’s that” she’d say, “what” he’d retort…”I thought I said a Tony Curtis”, she’d respond....Dad…”He (pointing to me) wanted it cut like that”…Friggen El Dad, throw me under the bus…I was in the midst of it, a proxy for the ongoing mastery of the house….LFC or Mum. This would not be the first time.
But you might ask what does the haircut look like. Here you go, yours truly is the blond on the right and I ask you, Tony Curtis or Ian St John…it didn’t matter, it was LFC encroaching on Mum’s turf and battle lines were being drawn. She’d lost her husband to LFC, but she was not about to lose her son, or at least that’s what she thought.
The League followed in 66 and Shankly continued to lay our foundation, not just on the pitch but off it, with his values and beliefs. With his own strong working class background and union convictions, Dad loved him, I did, we all did, who wouldn’t.
Just look at the face off the fella in the picture, love, admiration and look at Shanks, a handshake and a friendly pat. Mutuality of respect.
My first season watching the Reds in the ground on my own was 70/71. I would go in the Anny Rd (not that I was a Rd Ender) but I was terrified of going into the boys pen (wimp) and I couldn’t get a good spec in the Kop (I was not yet 5 ft then), so off into the Anny it was. Spec was on the Right Hand side looking at it from the Kop, about half way up, there was a small wall that if you got there early (and I did) you could get behind. View was sound.
The real reason I was there early is that I would go the match with my Dad and his best mate Frank Taylor. By then we’d moved from inner Bootle, to its outskirts in Netherton. Council house of me Mum’s dreams, small garden, she was happy. Dad found the “country” strange and still based in Lime St, he’d often forget the way home, or miss his bus, continuing his other love affair with Ma Edgy.
Frank was our neighbor. A brilliant man with great wife Rio and two kids, Paul and Jackie. Mum had found her soul mate in Rio, they would continue to plot against LFC, while friendships lasting today through LFC were formed between Paul, Jackie & I.
Jackie still goes the match today with her husband Bryn on SoS coaches. Bryn was my best mate through school. Fanatics the two of them. Paul and I went to many matches together, slightly older than me he would pass a beer on so I could really get into the post match atmosphere and understand he real reasons for our love of LFC !
That atmosphere was the Fountain’s Abby Pub on Walton Rd (next to the Flemings shop…best Jeans in the world BTW back then).
Frank, Dad and the rest of their cohorts, along with other groups of men unknown to me, would meet there before and after every home game for many years. I was the decoy. If I was there Dad thought he would get off easy when we got home. It wasn’t to be. Dad’s high from a Liverpool home win and a few pints with his mates was washed away within minutes of getting back to the house.
“You, I friggin hate Liverpool”…Dad knew better than to respond…”its always them and your mates”…still silence from Dad…”and You (as mum pointed to me, all of 11), you’ll end up like him”…I was the innocent party. I’d only sat in the Fountains drinking my lemo, watching Dad, Frank and the crew argue over the merits of our midfield and that Shankly couldn’t pick a team to save his life, getting rid of the old guard too early after the debacle at Watford in the FAC cup the previous season…etc, etc, etc….the back room in the Fountain’s was the Seat of Knowledge. Grecian philosophers in Athens had nothing on these men. Fellas who worked on the Dock, the Railway, the Building…top notch, they knew their stuff and they all loved LFC and the camaraderie that love brought with it.
More reasons for me to love LFC as well.
The big test for Mum and Dad came towards the end of the ‘71 season. We got to the FA cup Semi’s against Everton. Being played at Old Trafford we had to go, didn’t work out that way though. Mum’s sister Carole was getting married that day. I was devastated, but Dad was thinking this through. “Ok, lad, we’ll miss the semi, but we’ll batter Everton and I’ll take you the final. We’ll be in yer mam’s good books by going the wedding and she’ll be fine with us going to Wembley”.
Mmm…a cunning plan, Dad was outmaneuvering Mum, new respect for the Old Fella.
He was right we beat Everton, and Wembley was on the horizon where we would face Arsenal.
“Dad, how will we get to Wembley, train or Frank’s car”…that car BTW was a Hillman Imp that struggled to get to the shops but it got me to Anfield loads of times.
“Err, not sure son”….I was smelling a rat. “Arr come on Dad, its only a couple of weeks away”
“Yer not going lad”…said Mum, hovering, smiling.
“Wha, he promised me”
“Well lad, he’s going with his mates isn’t he and leaving you with me and Denise(sister)”
“Dad, you promised…”
“Can’t get you a ticket lad, they’re like gold dust”….
Blah, Blah, Blah…I never heard the rest, I was in big sulk mode. I was 11, would we ever get to Wembley ever, ever again.
Devastated but Dad picked me up “I’ll take you next time”…that was it, there would be a next time, and Dad was going to take me.
Sorry, Déjà vu.
’74, after a replay we beat Leicester to set up a final with Newcastle and big mouth Malcom Macdonald. I’d been the semis with Dad and Frank and now Wembley was again on the Horizon.
“Dad, will we get tickets ?”….”I hope so son, I’ve got a few feelers out and hopefully my seasony will come up”
One of those “feelers” was through me Mum. By then she was feeling sorry for me, was realizing she had lost me to LFC and she was going to get me a ticket. She was working as a bar maid in a pub called the Punchbowl. An establishment frequented by Liverpool players as they drove through Bootle, Netherton to their posh houses in Formby.
One of those players was Ian Callaghan, a player me Mum knew from L8 where he was a family friend and lived in the same area of tenement blocks. Cally came through with a ticket. I was sorted. Dad’s seasony never came up. Was I sorted or?
I sensed the atmosphere in the room.
“We’ve only got one ticket lad”…Yes Dad, I know and its mine I said to myself, sensing betrayal.
“I’ve talked to yer mam and we both agree you can’t go by yerself”…Friggen ‘el I was 13 of course I could go by myself…couldn’t I?. It was not to be though, I was the bridesmaid yet again.
I can recall to this day looking out the bedroom window that early Saturday morning watching Dad and Frank get into a taxi to take them to Lime St and the train then onto London. I cried and I cried but that afternoon they became tears of joy as we battered Newcastle and rammed “Super Macs” words down his mouth.
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| Stevie Heighway scored the 2nd goal and continued the trend of strange LFC forwards jumps. |
And for getting me the ticket that I never got, thanks Cally and Kevin K for that brilliant display that day
The next great event for lad and Dad was 75/76. Wolves away. We needed to draw to win the league. Wolves needed to win to stand any chance of staying up.
Getting ready to do my O Levels, taking the afternoon off school to get the coach with Dad and his mates was always going to be a tricky one with Mum. Dad worked his magic though with his promise that “we would be back handy”…haha.
What a night, what a game…there were 50,000 Scousers there…well loads of us anyway…and this is from a Wolves fan who wrote of that night when we won the League at Molineux….
My all time memory of the match that will stay with me forever, is their "Walk on" after they scored. Never seen anything like it previously or since. I tell you, it sends a shiver down my spine when I think of it, 30,000 Scousers singing their hearts out, you can probably imagine it if you think Kop on the south bank. Don't get me wrong, our support was fantastic, but that walk on…
It was fantastic, but it didn’t end after the game. The Kids I was with (Dad, Frank and crew) had other ideas. We were heading to a Working Men’s Club somewhere in the Black Country. This was all sorted well before we left for the game. Dad had not been fully truthful with me Mum. I could sense trouble ahead.
Aidan J Harvey of subsequent New Faces fame was the comedian on the Club. It was a late night. The Kids had their celebratory heads on and did a good job at attempting to drink the club dry and did their very best at competing against Mr. Harvey in the comedian stakes. But it didn’t end there.
The coach was parked outside the club a few yards from a big wagon. One of the Kids went over to the truck to take a leak, he peered innocently under the tarp on the wagon.
“Over here boys”
“Worra is it lar”
“Friggin Carlsberg Special Brew, cases of it”
Within minutes a line of bodies was formed between the wagon and coach, passing case by case of that high octane brew to the coach.
“Get on the coach son” said Dad, clearly he didn’t want me involved in the heist of the century.
I didn’t understand then how people could drink so much. This had started at mid day at the Park Hotel in Netherton, continued on the coach, before the game, in the club after, now on the coach back. I didn’t understand it then at 15, but I quickly learnt it.
Coach dropped us of at the Cabbage pub as dawn was breaking. We knew we were in trouble. Dad, Frank, Paul and I traipsed up Church Way to our houses. Nothing much was said. Frank and Paul nodded their heads to us as they went off to face their doom at the hands of Rio. We signaled acknowledgement. Joan (Mum) was waiting. Silent treatment.
She was keeping her powder dry. I watched the tactics and strategy at play. She’d done her homework. The Bruges away game was a couple of weeks away with the final on a knife edge after the first leg at Anfield.
“And you can frig off if you think you’re going to Germany for that Bruges game”…Geography as not her strong subject.
Dad grunted, he was hung over, knackered and wanted to get to bed. He’d sneaked a day off. He knew full well how this was going to end up. He begged forgiveness.
“Honestly luv, I had no idea, I wanted to get back…it was them lads from Scotts bakery”…lying sod, he needed no encouragement.
He grabbed a cup of tea and crept of to bed. I was next and in the line of fire.
“Go upstairs, get changed and get to school, friggin idiot, just like him upstairs”
“Mam, I’m exhausted, I need a sleep, I’ll go in this afternoon, its only study time this morning”…I’d learnt from Dad, my time for Porkies.
That was it, I ran up to bed and never got up all day. Missed the full day at school.
Nest day at the Salesian morning assembly the Headmaster Father Gordon, stood alongside his chief henchman Father Murphy. He had a few words to say. Seemingly there were loads of lads that missed a full day off school as I did. The Father’s were not soft. They new the culprits….it was LFC and bunches of recalcitrant dads.
That was not the end of it. Letters expressing indignation and repugnance for said events were sent by Father Gordon to all the families. Mum was apoplectic. As were Mums all over Bootle. Confessionals were booked solid and many Hail Maries and Our Fathers were said to get back on the good side of Fathers Gordon and Murphy.
Bruges away was beckoning.
I knew I had no chance. O levels were upon me and while I pined at Dad even he had given up on me going. But he had his ticket and transportation and hotels were sorted. Frank sweet talked Rio, Dad sweet talked Joan…they were sorted. Dad even told me off in front to Mum…”Don’t even think you’re coming to Bruges lad, get to school and do those O thingy tests”
He winked at me after that “tirade”. I was part of the deal. Stick up for Mum with me and “those tests” and he could go to Bruges. E Tu Brutus.
Harmony didn’t last long. He got home from Bruges late on the Friday, a good 24 hrs late. He was in bad books again. This was not a good omen for next season.
What a season though. My first trip to Wembley (he came through this time). Despite the result a hugely memorable day. But no trip onto Rome. After the behavior of lad and dad the season before Mum put her foot down. I had stayed on at school to do those “thingy A levels” and she was adamant that I could not take any time off. She called on the wrath of God, or Father Gordon…she was not about to say any more Hail Maries to atone for my sins, so I was stuck. Dad couldn’t get her to budge and he wasn’t keen without me so he gave up. I think that he never forgive me for staying on and not leaving school at 16. If I was doing an apprenticeship somewhere we’d had been at Rome. Never mind, good times still lay ahead.
Leading up to Rome though was one of the great European nights at Anfield I have experienced. The Qtr final 2nd leg against St Etienne. David Fairclough scoring the winner in the Kop End on the 84th minute. I was there in the Kop with Dad, Frank and Jackie. We were standing about in the same position where my current season ticket is (B206). The attendance was 55,000…I don’t know how many were in the Kop…25,000 perhaps. In the Kop then, did you ever feel afraid ? Never. We were with family, people who cared about you. Loved you because you loved LFC. You didn’t know them, but it didn’t matter.
I know we talk of the Kop sucking the ball into the net. Romanticism I agree. But that night, I think the Kop willed that goal. It was the most amazing experience I have had of many, many brilliant experiences. It wasn’t a final but it was LFC on that greatest of journeys and we were all part of it. Super Sub had scored and I recall seeming to fall forever down the terrace, then a hand on my collar “Up here lad”…it was Dad, pulling me back to be along side as him. Giving me the biggest hug of all time, with tears in his eyes.
Why do I support Liverpool….mmmm, let me think.
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| Super Sub in front of an ecstatic Kop, doing that strange LFC forward jump. |
By this time though two of my Dad’s heroes, Shanks and Keegan had moved on.
Shanks had been replaced by Sir Bob, another man of honor and dignity.
And Keegan was replaced by the man who would be my hero forever, Mr. Dalglish.
Not just because of the player and manager he was, but more importantly because of the man he is. I’ve not added a picture of Kenny. None can do him justice, I just prefer to keep the memories he has given me in my minds eye.
One of those memories was the following year, when we played and beat Bruges at Wembley in the European Cup Final. We were all down there again. Dad, Frank, Paul, Jackie and the rest. Even though I was not far from starting my A Level exams I was going. Mum knew she was well and truly beaten on this one.
I was standing with Dad behind the goal in the opposite end to where Dalglish scored. Not the greatest of games but we’d won the Cup again and my Dad had seen it. His disappointment at missing the Rome game was gone. After supporting the Reds now for close to 50 years, seeing them relegated and play in the 2nd Division he had seen them now win the greatest club competition in the world. And you know the best thing about it, I was there with him. To see him enjoy and appreciate something so much was heaven
sent.
“Lad, I’ve seen it all now, lets get back to the alehouse”…simple words from my hero.
From then Dad and I went our separate ways for the match. We’d still go to the odd one together, and I’d still have a pint with him and Frank, but I’d now got a Kop season ticket and was more inclined to go the game with the mates than with Dad. We were building our own memories and experiences by then.
Dad continued to go the match through the 80’s and early 90’s. By then I’d moved to the US and my match days to the extent they were in the 70’s and 80’s had passed. He kept me in touch though with the games in the days before the Internet and Fox Soccer. He’d send me the Pink Echo over every week and called me in the US with dramatic news twice. The first when Arsenal won the league at Anfield in 89. Upsetting as that was it was nothing to how I felt with the 2nd call, telling me that Kenny had resigned. I was devastated. People around me in work looked at my face, they thought I’d lost a family member. When I tried to explain that the Manager, my hero, Kenny Dalglish had resigned…it fell on a lot of Mid Western deaf ears. Such is life. My Dad understood though. He felt the same. We all did.
Dad had though fell out of love with Football, not LFC, but Footy in general. He had his excuse, the costs, his own health etc but I know he just got fed up with it and the Sky thing was never really his scene. Too much glitz for him.
And like many people he was badly affected by Heysel and Hillsborough. After Heysel, I was just sitting in the house, had just got back from Belgium and was still in a real state of shock. He helped me through that and one thing he said I remember well…
“Lad, time’s a great healer but it will take Liverpool a long time to recover from this”
I wasn’t sure about that until I realized some time later he wasn’t talking about Liverpool Football Club.
The last game I went to with Dad was a Euro Championship game at Anfield. France v Holland. It was a good laugh. A few pints in the afternoon in town, including Ma Edgy’s, a bit to eat in the Old Post Office and mixing with Dutch fans around Mathew Street. He enjoyed all that, it was like the old days. Beer and Footy, Footy and Friends, Camaraderie and High Spirits. Knowing he was going to get grief off me Mum when I got him home. All part of the matchday experience that I feel has gone forever now.
Dad died in 2004 with his family at his side. Death is never good, but I was happy to see him be relieved of his pain, and I was in awe of the staff at Clatterbridge hospital and the magnificent strength of the other patience like Dad who were facing death but never gave up their fight and fought that terrible disease with the greatest of dignity.
In that short stay in hospital I would sit with Dad for the time he was still lucid and talk about LFC, recall the laughs and the good times. Ask him about the old days before I was around, just trying to keep his memory active and help him forget why he was there. He would laugh and the love he had for Liverpool Football Club would come through. I know that that bond of love for LFC and the memories he held close to him helped him in those last few days.
What of Mum though, she’s still blowing and going and the strangest of things now an LFC fan. For all her married life she had no regard for LFC. It was her nemesis; it came between her and her husband and son. She did not care one iota whether we won, lost or drew….LFC was her mortal enemy and she was hostile to all things associated with footy.
That all changed though when Dad died. All of a sudden she became number 1 fan. Of course she doesn’t go and she only watches on TV when she can (no Sky in our house !), but she listens to every game on the Radio. She’ll call me with a match summary. Generally to tell me that we’re rubbish and that Dad would be turning in his grave if he knew how bad we were etc, etc. All very, very funny.
Here’s a picture of her with LFC players that I took when home earlier this year. She’d had a few Pinot Grigio’s by the time the picture was took. She was not shy and told them the same thing, LFC were rubbish and he husband who had a season ticket for 40 odd years would be sick, blah, blah….fortunately the lads were real gents and nodded politely. Maybe, and more likely, they had not understood a word she said. Broad Scouse after an afternoon of booze does not translate very well and not easy on the ear.
So, Why then do I support Liverpool….is it the Success, the 18 League’s, the 5 European Cups etc. Of course that’s there, and it will always be. But I’d like to think my support of LFC is for other reasons. We all want success, desperately so, but it can’t all be about that. If it is, I think we will be missing something. Something more important than what success on the pitch brings us. I think Hillsborough and the ongoing fight for Truth and Justice taught us that.
His welfare is of my concern
No burden is he to bear
We'll get there
For I know
He would not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother
This week saw another two milestones in the fight for Justice. The released of the Justice Single “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother” and reaching the 100,000 signature mark for the Mrs. Williams petition.
Supporting Liverpool has always been about brotherhood in my opinion. That’s what the Kop helped to create. Anfield deep in the bowels of a very traditional working class area has helped maintain that despite the Corporate onslaught that the machine called Sky has propagated.
What the petition shows is that Brotherhood is still alive and continues to behind the cause for Justice. And what better song to pick to highlight the fight than “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother”….a song about support for your friends and family…
But I'm strong
Strong enough to carry him
He ain't heavy, he's my brother
So on we go
I’m glad I support LFC compared to any other Club in the World. No disrespect to any of them, but they’re just not LFC.
In the words of Gerry Marsden with Ferry Cross The Mersey…
People around every corner.
They seem to smile and say
We don't care what your name is boy
We'll never turn you away
So you’ll all have your own reasons for supporting LFC.
Wherever you come from is of no importance.
What is important though is the values and spirit of brotherhood, so if those things are in your heart and they took you to Anfield, you’re as Scouse as anybody.
One last picture….a coming home event for LFC, when they got beat by Arsenal in the 71 Cup Final. One of the reasons I feel we are a bit different to the rest…..
