Spiritual Home (part one)

Spiritual Home

It was not until I looked to the left of me that I really smiled. It came from within. After five years and a three- hour train journey, my eyes saw the distinctive Liverpool skyline, which had the spherical St. George’s Tower, a cathedral and one to spare. I felt in those moments that I was almost in my spiritual home.

My two companions were as passionate Liverpool fans as myself. Dean and Davie had both gone to many Liverpool games and as we would explain a few times, during the course of the day, that we three used to have season tickets. Now we watch Liverpool’s games on the TV, together, so this was a rare pilgrimage to our ‘mecca’.

The first task, having reached a crowded and busy Lime Street, was to join the end of an ever- increasing queue for a taxi. It was cold. I was glad that I had taken the old advice of a former lady, and had worn thin layers. After Dean shivered and complained that people were going to Anfield and not sharing the five- seater taxi, ours arrived.

At first, the driver, who I’ll call Fred, made the false presumption that, with our Welsh accents, we were Swansea City supporters. We soon put him right. If circumstances had been different, about 55 years ago, then he might have been right in my case, as both my parents originate from that area – it is indeed, the land of my father and grand-fathers too.

Fred told us that he used to work for Sky. That amongst his regular clients had been Gary Lineker.

‘Nice lad Gary’, he said, as he told us that he used to pick-up, the one- time England goal-scorer and travel the same journey as we were now – headed towards Liverpool’s ground.

Fred loved Cardiff but did not like going to Wembley. It was the motorways and the congestion. This fella had silver hair and the stress of driving all the time had got to him. He was content now to just drive around his own town, without the aid of his sat-nat. He only used that particular device to pre-warn him of the sneaky speed cameras.

A young Steven Gerrard had also been amongst his clients, as he name dropped. Telling us that he used to pick Stevie up when he was just starting out on his career. This was on the day after Gerrard had decided to come back to his roots and take a job working at Liverpool with the youth lads, on the first step to no doubt becoming manager at Anfield. Fred also used to pick-up Barry Horne, the former Everton and Wales midfielder, and take him to Cardiff too, via mid Wales. Jamie Carragher, a player who ranks 2^nd in Liverpool’s all-time appearance list, was another person he used to pick up. Fred would be worth a chapter all on his own, in a book called ‘Liverpool’s Characters’.

Dean said what I was thinking as we had headed-up the hill, past the old Strawberry Fields, as we dropped down into Everton and then, magically for us, Anfield.

‘We are heading towards the supporters club, Crouch’, he said to me, as he called me by my adopted name, which I have been called since we signed Peter Crouch, in 2006.

‘Yes’, I said and as I looked to my left, I caught the first glimpse of the grey, metal frame and steel structure which dwarfed over the streets of back-to-back brown houses: – Anfield Stadium.

We turned left and Dean said, ‘Anywhere by here drive’ and as I had pictured it, there was ‘The Flat Iron’, on our right. As we three got out, I glanced up the road and just like in the painting I had bought years before, the famous Anfield Kop stand, jutted up but now over-shadowed by the new Main Stand. Already there was a sea of people in red milling around the ground. We soon hot-footed it into the pub.

The arrangement was to meet Andy from Worcester there. As though sounding like the fans long song, ‘Poor Scouser Tommy’, the story is that Dean and Davie met big Andy in a bar in Cologne, in 2005, during the game versus Bayern Leverkusen after they could not get into the Last 16 Round Champions League tie. The three of them recognised each other, from having gone into ‘The Albert’, a pub just a stone’s throw from the Kop. It had been the start of a beautiful, noisy and beery, friendship.

Andy, balding, tipsy, and the first one to make fun of himself; explained that his wife to be had had difficulty with sending out invites to his summer wedding. As most blokes do, they name people with nicknames. It had taken her ages to decipher Andy’s list. Amongst those going was Dean and Davie. Andy pointed out that he had known them longer, than he had known his intended. It was a marriage made in heaven when those three had met.

With Beatles pictures prominent and fliers to other bands crammed on the walls, the juke box was on but this was not the right conditions for what Davie and I wanted to do; to have a sing song, like we all used to.

Andy got the juke box volume lowered and then we began, with him, as usual, leading. It only took one match – to burn a thousand trees, so to speak, as ‘The Kop Anthem’, ‘Poor Scouser Tommy’ was belted out. Then another favourite, which would jostle for a Kop Top Ten, was started by Andy, as we sang ‘Every Other Saturday’. With a bit of coaxing from Dean, as he said cryptically, ‘Where was he outside?’ the penny finally dropped for Andy, as he began, ‘The Fields of Anfield Road’.

It felt good to be back home and in the groove.

All of Andy’s mates sang too but not the rest of the pub. This was not like ‘The Park’ or ‘The Albert’ in their heydays, when all the people joined in. That had been magical. A case of, ‘I was there’. In those moments, everyone felt as one. It was un-explainable. It was especially explosive when Rafael Benitez was at the helm. There were times, between 2005-08 when we felt, invincible again.

As I was coming back from the loo, I just could not help but notice a mural on the one wall. The large image, of a white number seven, on a red background – it could only have been of Kenny Dalglish, Liverpool legend. With a great symbolism, alongside him was painted one Ian Rush, the Welshman who scored 346 goals for the club, many of them made by ‘King Kenny’ himself in the most- deadliest, stealthiest, prolific partnerships of all-time, which terrorised every defence it came across in the early 1980’s. Was it no wonder I just had to take a photo of it – despite realising criminally, that my camera’s battery was dying on me.

We went up the road, following the path, again of the old painting I had fortunately bought years ago. Past houses on either side then hitting the edge of the stadium and Flag Pole corner, on our right. This is as famous a landmark as the Kop itself; for the pole is all that is left of Ismbard Kingdom Brunel’s mammoth iron ship; ‘The SS Great Eastern’. Anfield is full of history, as well as dreams and songs to sing.

‘You can frisk him if you want’, joked Davie, to the girl, before I was about to go into the ground, with the new Main Stand, towering above us, to our left. It looked so impressive.

The girl laughed, as she looked inside my carrier. Two programmes, a paper and crisps. That was it. I had managed to eat all my food and drink a can of beer. The boys had a few lagers on the way up but not me, as I wanted to try and remember something of the day, if I could.

I followed the boys up the well – trodden stairs, up to the concourse and we were deep inside the womb of the Kop. Fans were queuing-up everywhere for food and drink. We decided where to meet at half-time and I texted my long- time friend, Gail, to tell her where we would be.

It was time then to make my way to Block 205 and then I emerged through the opening, as though emerging from my own tunnel of darkness, which had lasted five years. In front of me was the lush green turf of Anfield. It was a proud moment. I reached the seat and as a lad I knew came in, he said,

‘You stay there Crouchie’, due to my height. It was a wise option.

I introduced myself to the Scouser who was next to me. A fella called Mike and I explained I was ashamed to say that I had not been for five years but I did point out to Block 203, to the left, where my season ticket used to be.

Before we knew it, it was 12.30 and I lustily sang our anthem, you all know it, as Mr Hicks said at the Hillsborough Concert in 1997, ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. With scarfs raised everywhere it was a sight and sound to behold. I took it all in, with my eyes finally looking at the new stand to my left. It was awesome.

Liverpool were five points off leaders Chelsea. In third place, on 45 points with Spurs, who were second on goal difference. I felt that if we were to have any chance of winning that elusive first championship in 27 years, then we (Liverpool) simply had to beat Swansea.

Swansea had taken a tattering against a few clubs in recent matches and had finally got rid of Mr Yank and his ‘P-kick’ phrase, Bob Bradley. Paul Clement had come in and this was his first game in charge. Under any normal circumstances, I would wish Swansea all the best. However, on this occasion, I wanted them to lose. Liverpool first, second and third – always in that order for me. Wales come fourth. It has always been Liverpool and it always will be Liverpool. I love them and no-one else comes close to that.

Liverpool at least won the toss and elected to play with their backs towards the Kop in the first half. Over Christmas I had asked for a book on the ‘Team of all the Macs’. It was the story detailing how LFC had been founded and how their team had been largely recruited from bonny Scotland. Hence the nickname they had been given. In the first game at Anfield, our first captain had elected to also defend the Kop End, and the tradition has just carried on throughout the 127 – year history of the club.

Swansea put-up an all- white impregnable wall. Liverpool just could not break them down. I again marvelled though at being able to see my heroes in the flesh, 30 seasons since I had first gone to Anfield. To watch the movement off the ball of Phil Coutinho and see him pass out wide to James Milner a lot of the time, as he tried to make it to the by-line and put a cross in. It was pure theatre. I felt as though all the travelling and early get-up had been worthwhile. Only 57,000 could be witnessing the spectacle, hearing the crowd and feeling the cold.

I stood-up for the entire first half. Half of the Kop to my left were sitting down. I tried to sing as many times as I could before my voice got a bit hoarse. Years ago, I would never stop singing, encouraging, yelling at the players.

Swansea came close. They were right below me and had half a chance. A set-piece – Liverpool’s Achilles heel.

Liverpool’s best chances came when Roberto Firmino had a header go just over and Adam Lallana and his fluorescent green boots, tried an overhead kick, which also went over. Despite all that possession and control of the play, the home team had failed to break Swansea down.

I went to meet the lads and they both said what I thought. Liverpool had been too slow. They needed to be sharper. They may have been missing Sadio Mane – our winger, who was competing in the African Nations Cup. Then I went to see Gail, whom I had not seen for five or so years. We had met on the old standing Kop, when Liverpool had last won the league and she told me that Jacob, her son, whom she held now, whilst he tucked into some Pringles, had never seen Liverpool win in the two times he had come to Anfield. We laughed worriedly and hoped that it was not a bad omen.

When I reached my place, the ref had not waited for me and the game had re-started. Within moments Swansea were on the attack and had taken a corner and hey ho, scored. A great finish.

‘Un-believeable…’ Mike said, shaking his head, as the Swans fans exploded in the bottom left-hand corner.

The fans urged the team to pull their socks-up and they scampered to win the crucial first balls. However, Swansea, with their tails-up, countered and before anyone knew it, especially Liverpool’s lackadaisical, dawdling defence, scored again – from another set-piece, to go 2-0 up.

An utter calamity was taking place. If it was a play I was watching, it would have been a farce. It could even have been screened in the lovely old ornate Grand Theatre which Swansea possesses. It would have been be a hoot for the locals to have seen.

Everyone around me was shouting. Swear words. Liverpool’s movement finally became slicker. They were playing with real desire – at last. Somehow, Roberto Firmino headed the ball into the bottom right hand corner of the keeper’s net, just below me. I was delighted but just, just could not jump-up and celebrate. I felt numb and tired but glad that we had pulled a goal back. Maybe I was disappointed and could not shake myself. One goal was the minimum I had expected Liverpool to have scored.

Then after another attack Roberto Firmino planted an effort into the left corner. 2-2. He set off an explosion of noise and ran to the corner and slid on the ground, in salute. Roberto ‘Bobby’ Firmino should play more centrally and here he was showing why, to deadly affect.

At this stage, there was only going to be one winner – wasn’t there?