The Only Day That Really Matters
By Ian K
Issue 64, Spring 2004
I was in the third or fourth year of high school (this being the days when phrases such as ’First Year Juniors’ and ’Upper’ and ’Lower Sixth’ actually meant something) and one piece of work was to write a letter of condolence to a friend’s parent under the pretence that we’d both been in some sort of accident; I’d survived - he hadn’t. What that was all about I’ll never know, but then most of the things you did in school seem to count for very little a few years later. Take Geography for example - I couldn’t tell you what half the capital cities of the World are called but I could talk you through the rain cycle; the tundra of North America and crustaceous rocks!
Anyway, for this particular piece, I remember writing about a train crash and my letter spoke of my sorrow and how luck in choosing where we sat had played a huge part in my survival and his death! It got a tick v.g. for general all-round sensitivity!
Looking back, I’d say I was quite lucky as a youngster; we didn’t have much in the way of money (for my 10th birthday my mum bought half a cake, put five candles on it and put it in front of the mirror), but my childhood was happy and I had a good set of mates who shared my love of football in general and, some of them, Liverpool in particular.
All the way through the 3rd and 4th Year, we would go out into Birkenhead Park at dinner time and play pretty much a full-on, half hour game of football (we did have to go and buy our dinner as well). As to how we must have looked and smelled during the afternoon it doesn’t bear thinking about- suffice to say grass stains and b.o. played a large part in our afternoon uniforms!
As we went through our 15th and 16th birthdays, playing football gave way a little to watching football. A typical weekend would include Prenton Park on Friday night followed by leaving the house at 11.30am to make the less-than-an-hour trip to The Ground where we would queue up for the kiddies entrance - a whole day out for less than a fiver. We would regularly be amongst the first on the Kop although whilst in the queue there was always the over-flow from the open air toilets along Breck Road to contend with - maybe not quite so happy days?
We were regulars during the 86/87 season and a few away games crept in which was a damn good laugh for us 14/15 year olds culminating at Wembley for the Arsenal Littlewoods Cup Final - a day that included a mate vomiting on himself (and partially on me) before we’d got on the motorway at Eastham (before 7am) - but that’s a story for another time.
87/88 coincided with our becoming season ticket holders - mid £40’s for nine months of pleasure. Following Liverpool was an absolute joy; it didn’t matter where we went, we were almost guaranteed a Liverpool win.
Then came the FA cup semi-final - my second semi in three years (I’m still talking football here!) as I’d been lucky enough to go to White Hart Lane in ’86. Although two years on from that match, the trauma of a 13 year old seeing his Head of Year - whom he looked up to as a pillar of society - leading the singing in the pub before the game ("We don’t carry bottles....") was something that came flooding back as we saw him outside of Hillsborough. Pleasantries were exchanged - no singing from him this time, but it was early, he probably hadn’t been to the pub yet.
We had a walk around the Ground - or at least the Liverpool side of the ground - raided the shop for sweets (paid for, not a proper raid) and although it was only about 1 o’clock, decided we may as well go in. (These being the days where the only drinking we partook in was at parties organised by fellow schoolies with their parents away when you’d be pissed and vomiting on half a can of Fosters) As usual we were amongst the first on the terraces and decided we’d stand right behind the goal. So we took up our positions, exactly the centre of the goal, just below crossbar height and waited.
It was probably about half an hour later: the terrace was still empty enough for us to sit on the concrete, read the programme; and I don’t know who made the suggestion, but there was a proposal to go and stand on the upper terrace - to the right hand side of the Leppings Lane Stand as you look at it. As usually happened under these circumstances, my desire to stay put was overruled and we wandered to the upper terrace.
I was still unconvinced - behind the goal is where the best atmosphere would be - but there was an air of, ’let’s go and see what it’s like and if it’s crap we can come back down.’ As it happens, the view from right up in the top corner, right against the blue corrugated sheet was second to none. We knew once we stood there that what we might lose in atmosphere up there we would gain in view - and hypothermia.
The match is a blur, I can just about tell you that, at the time, I thought Aldo’s goal was one of the best I’d ever seen and we were beating not just your Wycombe’s of this world but our closest rivals at the time.
By the time we drew Forest at the same stage the following year we’d left school, got jobs or gone to Sixth Form and discovered the joys of regular alcohol consumption and clubbing! Alleluia!
April had been a good month. The April showers were showers of cash: Saturday 1st was spent at the Snooker Club and after snookering for a bit, spent on the fruity. Before the evening was out I had taken the £100 jackpot out through the gamble button! That was quite special, I can tell you. We were made up. Sunday night was spent back in the Snooker Club - TWO more jackpots came out - one straight and another one gambled and within an hour of each other. Monday night saw another £75! A lot had gone back in, like you do, and obviously it was drinks all round for three nights, but the remainder paid for the semi-final.
I can’t tell you too much about the early part of the 15th April 1989. I seem to remember it was sunny, and that the Barnes Travel coach was setting off, in my opinion, a bit early considering it wasn’t that far a journey; but hey - semi-final; I’d rather be there early than not at all. The previous year we’d been to Newcastle and were herded in by the Police just in time to see the kick-off.
We arrived at the ground early once more and as the previous year decided to go in. This was something that, thinking back now, I can’t quite fathom out. Despite by now going out on the piss most weekends, our trips to the match NEVER included a swift one before hand. Not on away days, not even at Anfield. Strange. Could have gone for a drink, could have arrived back at the ground later.
So, in we went and took our places in exactly the same place as the previous year - upper terrace, above the corner flag. And, as in ’88, a bit of a discussion took place regarding whether or not a change in position to behind the goal should take place. I lost again.
From our elevated position it is reasonable to think that we should notice how full the central pen is. We don’t. The players are out and the match is beginning. However, I do notice how empty the side pens are. When the first fan comes off the terrace, you wonder what’s going on. When someone starts trying to pull the fence away, I honestly think it’s trouble of the fighting kind. By the time people are staggering out and lying on the turf it’s apparent something very very wrong is happening.
Hoardings being carried across the pitch with people stretched out on them, and an ambulance by the goal just completely add a sense of utter confusion and bedlam. We stand watching helpless for, I think, an hour. The P.A. system announces the match has been abandoned and we start shuffling away. Someone on the pitch is calling to his mate up where we are. Only Tony from our group has heard him - "Forty dead!" "Fuck off Tony, stop talking shit!" is the stock answer from us. The walk back to the coaches is a silent daze. When we find it, Everton are still on the radio and you spend your time looking for empty seats. All passengers from our coach come back. Some with ripped trousers; someone’s lost a trainer, all have looks of bewilderment.
The coach stops on the way home, somewhere still in Yorkshire I think, a village green with a single telephone box has a queue trailing from it. Four young lads sit on the grass and try and make sense of what has gone before them. Not one of us makes a call home.
We eventually get back to Birkenhead and head straight for the snooker hall again. It’s after eight o’clock, it’s only then that we ring to say we’re okay and we’ll be home in an hour or so after a couple of much-needed stiff drinks.
It transpires in the following days that my mum had seen the pictures going out on Grandstand and was going spare, phoning friends that hadn’t actually gone the match to try and find any information. It actually brought home the scale of things and how insensitive we’d been to those waiting at home. She honestly thought she’d lost two sons that afternoon.
My older brother had been caught up in the crush outside the ground. He described it as unlike anything he had ever known at a football match with arms pinned down by his sides, unable to get them in front of himself to even lever a small amount of space. As the gates were opened he managed to pull himself to the side of the crowd sweeping in and never went down the tunnel. He ended up in the stands above.
The inquest into what had gone on was on the radio on the Sunday morning; fans ringing in to give their version of events, to tell their tale. The first song I hear that morning was Eternal Flame by The Bangles. It’s something that will stay with me for life.
Five-a-side becomes something like nine or ten a-side with lads we haven’t seen for weeks or months turning up. I play out of my skin; it’s like my little tribute. Monday was a college day and as I walk into the class there’s a lad in my normal seat. "See you weren’t crushed then." "No Matt."
The Sun went beyond all realms of human decency in those days, but the other papers were nearly as bad. They didn’t run the stories but the Monday morning pictures - mostly double-page spreads across the front and back page - show the full horror from right at the front of the cages. The two girls with blue faces who are given up for dead by the majority of the country are gratefully found to be alive a few days later. But the photo’s are detestable.
Break time brings a chance to catch up with other friends who were known to be there and to check that they are ok. Nervous, relieved laughter ring out as we greet each other. It’s a good moment. Aaron speaks up: he had been there too - he’d got a ticket late on the Friday. Funny, he hadn’t taken any interest in football for the rest of the term but we’re relieved that he’s back in college too. A bit of cross (in both aspects of the word) questioning reveals he’s made it up.
I can’t quite describe the contempt I think about thirty lads felt for him at that time. Reds, Blue’s, none footballing lads: I mean, it’s one thing saying you were at St Etienne - I actually was amongst the 327,000 who attended the ’Houllier’ Roma return game. Now I just look back on him with a sense of pity.
I didn’t get a chance to get to Anfield until the following Sunday, spending the afternoon silently twisting through the streets surrounding the ground. It was worth the wait. The floral tributes were at the halfway line, I left mine and went to sit in the Anny Road: right in the middle, just above the crossbar. By the time I got into the ground it was early evening; the sun was starting to set and there was a bit of a closing ceremony that I stayed for. I’m glad I did, it was a beautiful sight and a truly moving experience, remembering the then ninety-four who hadn’t returned and of whom I could have been one.
That evening there was a benefit night going on in Miltons Pub in Birkenhead. A brilliant night that ended up with an emotional rendition of You’ll Never Walk Alone. It was the last time I shed tears until recently (incidentally the tribute that .tv put on the official site as part of their 100 Days That Shook the Kop).
Life returned to relative normality. I thought I was pretty unaffected by the whole experience, able to put it to one side and not be troubled. I’d met a lad who had been there and twelve months on was still having nightmares; I was thankful I wasn’t like that, but I realise now that it wasn’t probably the case. Twelve months on from Hillsborough I had an English oral exam as part of my GCSE resit. It was only recently that I realised how that Examiner had acted almost as a counsellor to me as I talked at him for however long it was. I still cannot bring myself to actually watch Jimmy McGovern’s ’Hillsborough’. I’ve got it on tape, have had it there for years since I recorded it. I haven’t got the bottle to put it in and press play for fear of what it may stir up, which actually I find a bit sad.
We moved to Bebington a couple of years ago, near to Lever’s and The Brown Cow - which regular users of the Forum will tell you they have voted as the worst pub they have ever been in! Last March we had a walk around the ’Port’ and almost stumbled across the memorial garden that had been set up there, so, last April 15th I went back after work just to stop and pay my respects. There was a lad sitting there, maybe about the same age as me, his face was etched with a pain that only grief could manifest. I’ve very rarely seen such anguish, I really felt as if I was intruding. Maybe I should have spoken to him - it didn’t seem right at the time and what would I say, "Come here often?"
A couple of months later, just before the start of the season, I was up at Anfield and as I was running a bit early I took time to pay my own respects at the memorial in a way that you probably don’t get time to on a normal match day. As I was standing there a bloke came up stood just in front of me with his son: both kitted out in their Liverpool shirts and with southern accents. The little lad was no more than about five or six, maybe seven - his Liver World bag was nearly as big as him. The dad leaned down and started talking to him, pointing up at the names and scarves and flowers that people had left. It was a touching moment, I’ve got another lump in my throat now, just thinking of them: I left them to it but it was heat-warming to see - another generation that won’t forget.
I am proud that I am a Liverpool fan. I feel privileged - if that’s the word - to have been at Hillsborough; to have witnessed first hand the heroics of ordinary men and women going way beyond the call of normal expectations; taking control of a situation whilst others who should have known better just floundered. I am proud of the way we conducted ourselves in the aftermath. I am proud that 15 years on, the fight for justice continues in the face of all the adversity; that the Sun is still reviled here - please don’t buy it; proud that ninety-six fans are still remembered and always will be.
I think back to the conversation an hour or so before kick-off in 1988. A 3-to-1 majority won the discussion to watch the game from the upper terrace. The conversation we had in 1989 went along the lines of, "why do we want to go behind the goal this year we had such a great view last year." If we’d stayed behind the goal in ’88, we’d have been there again for the following year. It makes me wonder; if we had whether I would have had to fish out the letter I’d done for homework and write it for real.
Always remembered, Never Walk Alone. Rest in peace
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If I may, I’d like to recommend a book I’ve recently read: Hillsborough, by Phil Scratton. It’s excellent, highlighting just what the families have been up against since that day. I defy anyone to read it and not be angry. As a result I’m setting up a regular donation and I would urge any of you who can spare some cash each month to do the same.
Justice.
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