The Tomkins Times has published my latest bit of drivel. It seems to have gone over well and the sad but God's honest truth is there's very little hyperbole involved. That stuff happened. Check it out:
http://tomkinstimes.com/2013/08/an-americans-trip-to-anfield/
And since I imagine you all aren't paying-members, here's the rest...
...I spend the rest of the evening on the Ropewalks trying to legitimise my
[impossibly laughable] “American on a pilgrimage to Anfield,” bit
before catching something that changes my plans: Anfield is open for
Matchday stadium tours. It’s unexpected and provides an infinitely
better exit excuse than headache avoidance, thus bringing to a close my
evening out in Liverpool. It doesn’t, however, mellow the
anticipation. Regardless, I eventually manage restless sleep and awake
to find little has changed, the late morning greyness wholly mirroring
that of the late afternoon. While I dress, I start to wonder if this
place could be some Truman Show for REST (2) patients, some existential
effort to catalogue the effect on a city, of a football club that
scoffed at the creeping industrial decay in preference of an ascent to
the peak of European influence: an-honest-to-Fowler, real-live per
angusta ad augusta. Because the truth is that Liverpool’s is a shirt so
laden with silverware that it on occasion proves suffocating, resembling
much more albatross than Liver Bird to the players donning it. And
this didn’t occur by chance. It was spurred by a support unified around
a club it saw as an extension of the community in which they resided.
Through the gates of Anfield Road, the Scousers gathered and
demonstrated through song and voice their devout admiration for a club
experiencing the very opposite of their own:
“It
turned you into a member of a new community, all brothers together for
an hour and a half…you had escaped with most of your mates and your
neighbours, with half the town, cheering together, thumping one another
on the shoulders, swapping judgments like Lords of the Earth, having
pushed your way through a turnstile into another and altogether more
splendid life.”(3)
I
hustle downtown in search of the #26 bus that will take me past
Anfield. It’s a full six hours before kickoff and I’m still hopeful
that I’ll get on with a tour. And if not, a few pre-match pints at the
Sandon should provide a more than sufficient alternative. Unfortunately
the driver’s a Bluenose though and prolongs the trip through needless
backtracking additional unnecessary stops (or so I imagine), before
finally the Centenary Stand pierces the roofline. And it’s striking. But
not striking in the sense of size or grandiose or anatomic beauty (4),
it’s striking in its impossibly thorough regularity. It sits firmly
within suburban stagnation, and it’s comfortable there.
I
float off the bus, eyes fixed on “The Kop,” stand below Shankly’s
outstretched arms and would swear the bricks whisper, “I’ve seen what a
Franco-less Madrid, a Berlusconi-less Milan, and a Messi-less Barcelona
can only dream of. I AM the proletariat. I AM THE BEAUTIFUL GAME.
And yet somehow … some way … some people choose the Arsenal.
I can’t believe my luck as the final tour of the day departs shortly. I
join up to come within inches of the Istanbul cup, touch This is
Anfield, and finally march down the players’ tunnel. Things seem to move
very quickly around me. I sit in the first row and think – there’s
Stevie Heighway’s left wing; Dalglish’s [or still Keegan’s?] #7; Bruce
Grobbelaar’s wobbly legs; Shankly, Paisley, and Fagan pacing the
sidelines… before noticing the group has walked on. It doesn’t matter
though…a stream of YouTube clips is passing before my eyes. Here I am at
Anfield … home to Liverpool Football Club for nearly 12 decades … the
only home it’s ever had …. the most successful English side of all time
…. the …
“Come
along, Dev. The tour’s ending” wipes away the moment. I walk on behind
the Kop, and exit out into the frigid sogginess in search of that
pre-match pint.
There’s
something inexorably strange about being American and supporting
Liverpool Football Club. And it’s much less ephemeral than “Built by
Shanks, Destroyed by Yanks(5).” Despite its global appeal, the club is
so profoundly Scouse and so firmly rooted to the heritage which spawned
the Famous Red that pouring myself into it feels almost irresponsible.
How on earth, for example, can I ever truly come to terms with
Hillsborough? I waited with honest and genuine anticipation for the
Panel’s words; I’ve watched and been moved by Bill Kenwright’s speech
(on numerous occasions); I do not, no matter how tempting, under any
circumstances, click on anything from the Sun; and even though I know
very little about the woman, I can’t stand Margaret Thatcher. And yet
every time I consider the thought of the 96 I feel guilty. Guilty that
I’m attempting to force my way into a Club and a despair that could only
have been lived to have been understood. Can you imagine losing a loved
one? What about knowing the loss was through horrific event
mismanagement ? And what about if afterwards he or she was blamed for
it? For over two decades. And all along the way you’re told simply to
“move on.” In what might turn out to be the understatement of my life:
that’s difficult to grasp.
The
subtleness with which Jose Reina has exited Liverpool, combined with
his heartfelt goodbye letter, has finally got me to write about my trip
to Anfield. And as I hope to have conveyed to you all, it was a
genuinely special event for me. It didn’t matter that Liverpool were in
the middle of its worst league finish in 50 years. Or that I’d heard
You’ll Never Walk Alone louder a few days earlier(6). Or that
Liverpool’s latest sublime #7 didn’t play. Because after witnessing in
person the angelic purity with which Kenny Dalglish celebrates each and
every Liverpool goal, it dawned on me why I’m a Red. Rarely do clubs
produce such devout acolytes in the manner and consistency in which
Liverpool Football Club does. And rarely do clubs turn exceptional
footballing talents into exceptional members of the community.
Pepe
is right; it’s special. And it seems horribly unfair that when the
tumble appears finally to have been halted and the putrid shadows of
Hicks and Gillett to have finally been purged, Reina should be shown the
door. But par excellence and as Dalglish before him, he remains almost
impossibly gracious in exit. Jose Manual Reina Paez has served Liverpool
loyally for eight years, through four managers, an 8th place finish,
and in the face of resounding criticism for three full years now. I for
one will miss him greatly. No pasaron, Pepe, ni pasarán. You’ll Never
Walk Alone.
(1)
Winning a 5th European Cup was not just winning any other. Until
recently, any team that won three straight or five total got to keep the
real, authentic trophy. Liverpool are one of five clubs that will
forever possess a real European Cup. Eat your heart out Barcelona,
Manchester, London, and France.
(2) REST = Restricted Environmental Stimulation Therapy
(3) J.B. Priestly – The Good Companions
(4) Yes, Anfield is alive.
(5) Of which, I am not. I am a Southerner, thereby excluded from that wretched label.
(6) I got a ticket to the Old Firm as a warm-up for Anfield.
