I’ve been incredibly slack with my blogging of late. Life and other things seemed to get in the way, but I’ve found time to knock together a post while away on my trip to Europe. I wasn’t the first aussie to make the quasi-pilgramage to Anfield, and I won’t be the last, but this is my recount of the day I made that trip.
A bit of background – when I was at University in the early noughties, I spent way too much time reading about football. I mean, I still spend way too much time reading about football, only now it isn’t affecting my studies. And boy did it affect my studies. But I digress.
During these, what I like to call ‘research’ sessions – that was how I justified it to myself – I came across an article that boldly stated that Liverpool FC had drawn up plans to build a new home ground, meaning they would ultimately leave Anfield, their spiritual home.
This was in 2002, and although I had only begun following football a few years previous, I fully understood the magnitude of this announcement. After all, the stadium, with its famous ‘European’ nights, was just as storied as the team itself.
I remember then and there making a promise to myself that, one way or another, before Liverpool moved to any new ground I would get to Anfield to see them play live in person.
On the 7th of April 2012, I fulfilled that promise to myself. This is my account of that day.
As I got myself some lunch in the Liverpool city centre about 4 hours before kick-off, I was surprised by the lack of buzz and activity. I mean, sure there were loads of people in their Liverpool gear, but there wasn’t that charge in the atmosphere I had expected.
During my £10 cab fare to the ground, I was subjected to a scouse rant from the cab driver about how the football club only exists to enhance the lives of the locals who have nothing, and to draw their attention away from the helplessness of their social situation. There was also something about class A drugs but I didn’t catch all of it – hell, speaking with a thick scouse accent, I was lucky I caught any of it.
Once I had been dropped off near the ground, I found what I had expected to find all along – football fans in a pub! The aptly named Twelfth Man Hotel was standing room only, with many patrons forced to enjoy their lager in the adjoining laneway. As I enjoyed a pre-match pint, I listened as the locals put forward their thoughts on the match and the season in general. Who was doing well; who was playing ‘like poo’ and what they would do to fix it – all while keeping one eye on the TV, where Sunderland and Tottenham played out a dour 0-0 draw.
One local picked out my accent as I ordered my drink and an instant banter of football and beer ensued. He asked me my prediction going in; my answer was simple enough, given it was my first match – “Mate, I’ve come all the way from Australia – all I want is three points!!”
Not wanting to miss any of the pre-match atmosphere, I downed my pint and headed for the stadium. Not something that is easy to miss is Anfield, towering over the small two-story cottages that surround it – like looking at Andy Carroll standing next to Luis Suarez.
The contrast between central Liverpool’s vibrant cosmopolitan hub and the areas surrounding Anfield could not be more striking. In every direction you looked, all that was there were boarded up, dilapidated terrace houses. The only shops that were open, other than the pubs, were selling either fast food or Liverpool merchandise. I partook in both.
Match day program, badge and kebab in hand, I strode toward the stadium as chirps of “alright mate?” rung out in a now all too familiar scouse twang.
I found my entry gate under the Anfield Road end, taking a moment to pay my respects at the Hillsborough Memorial along the way. The turnstiles didn’t look like they had been updated in a century, save for the electronic bar code scanners used for reading the tickets.
Squeezing through the turnstile, I found a hub of activity underneath the stand. Some fans huddled around a TV watching the conclusion of the Sunderland Tottenham match. Others jostled for position at the concession stand, eager to get their hands on a pie and a Carlsberg in a plastic bottle.
Interested in neither a drab football match nor pies, I headed for my seat. Ascending the steps to the landing and my first glimpse inside the hallowed ground was a very surreal experience, although not entirely what I expected.
I thought I would be met with a wall of noise, with The Kop bouncing in full force. To my surprise, 30 minutes before kick-off and the most famous stand in world football was close to empty. Surely someone was playing a trick on me!
As kick-off neared the stands slowly began to fill, especially in the Kop. With a fantastic view of the famous terrace, I saw flags being flown and banners being unveiled, to then be passed along the length of the stand – rehearsed madness if ever there was.
Then, more famous than possibly the ground itself, began the rendition – my rendition – of You’ll Never Walk Alone. To say the hairs on the back of my neck stood up would be a colossal understatement – jumped out of my flesh is more like it. I have never sung so loud, so hard and with some much gusto in my whole life. This was truly one experience that was living up to the billing.
A minute silence was held prior to kick-off to honour the 96 lives that were lost in the Hillsborough tragedy – 60 seconds which was impeccably observed by both sets of supporters. Anfield was found to a stirring atmosphere whether it was raucously loud, or stone silent.
The referees whistle to signal the start of the game was met with an almighty cheer, followed by more songs and chanting – first the Kop end, then our end, singing back and forth at one another, almost as if each end of the ground was trying to outdo the other.
Despite a promising start, it did not all go to plan, as Villa nicked an early goal following a muffed clearance. This goal was met with stunned silence from the fans, with a dash of the odd “same old shite… every fooking week” comments.
Liverpool was, before the goal and following it, bossing the game. As play was directed towards our end of the field, particularly towards our corner of the pitch, the supporters would, one by one, pop out of their seats until the entire stand was up and in expectation of something worth celebrating. Amid cries of ‘ave it’ and ‘c’mon (insert relevant players name here – usually Gerrard or Suarez), the play would often peter out, with the fans taking their seats one by one, which led to a clapping of seats snapping back into position echoing out like a never-ending drum solo.
As the game went on, one thing that struck me was just how close – millimetres, really – top, top footballers come to absolutely snapping one another in almost every 50/50 challenge on the ball. A player would go thundering in and I would think to myself “he’s in trouble here”, only for years of training and skill to kick in, with them pulling up and merely nipping at the ball-carrier’s heels. Still, I imagine it would be like running a gauntlet of Chihuahua’s in shoes that had been soaked in meat.
If nothing else, I can say I had a bird’s eye view of Dirk Kuyt’s nomination for miss of the month/year/decade as he contrived to put the ball over the bar and into the stand from a mere two yards out (look it up on You tube if you don’t believe me).
Bemused by the Dutch strikers miss, right before halftime, following an errant shot from Liverpool’s talismanic skipper, I was treated to the best chant of the day; a new twist on an old favourite…
Steve Gerrard Gerrard
He’s big and he fookin’ hard
He’s better than Frank Lampard
Steve Gerrard Gerrard
Who says scousers don’t have a sense of humour!
The second half was truly a test of my nerves as a Liverpool fan. Truth be told, Villa didn’t look like scoring. Liverpool had the majority of possession, which whilst being concentrated towards the other end of the pitch, meant I had a magnificent view of proceedings.
Most of the half went like this – Liverpool would build the play up, with the crowd rising in unison, only for a bad ball to shatter another promising attack, which was met by a collective groan. “Here we go again” was the mood of the fans, with expectation building with each promising attack just as much as it was dashed by every misplaced pass. I’ve heard of fans riding every challenge and kick of the game, but this was something else.
It ebbed and flowed, and ebbed and flowed, and Liverpool hit the post AGAIN, until finally, FINALLY, I had the moment I was waiting for – a Liverpool goal! I always imagined what it would be like being at Anfield while it erupts celebrating a goal, and erupt it did. In true Liverpool fashion, this season at least, the goal needed three shots and two clips of the cross bar to finally go in (I’m pretty sure the fans at my end suffered an attack of premature celebration following the second crossbar hit, such was our view from distance), but I didn’t care. I had the goal I was looking for.
I’d said to myself about ten minutes earlier that I could live with one goal. I wasn’t being greedy. I didn’t need to see them win, but it would have been nice to not have to witness a loss. And that is exactly what I got. Although the Reds pressed hard for a winner late on, and had several good chances, it simply wasn’t their, or my, day. 1-1 and my first Liverpool experience ended on an emotional high after roaring them on as best I could in search of a winner. It was then onto another local, standing room only, watering hole to toast a thoroughly enjoyable day.
As a side note, I should probably acknowledge Tom Hicks and George Gillett in all of this. All Liverpool fans loathe Hicks and Gillett, the men who owned the club prior to the current owner. Upon purchasing the club, Hicks and Gillett assured fans that they were committed to the future of the club, and that commitment would be manifested in the availability of funds for additions to the playing squad, but also, and more famously, that they would break ground on a new stadium within 90 days of taking the club over. 5 years and a new owner later, Liverpool fans are still waiting for that ground to be broken.
That said, I should probably be thanking them. After all, without their intervention and poor management, I probably wouldn’t have been able to keep my promise.
(All photos courtesy of my lovely, talented and supporting wife Charmaine. Cheers Baby!)





