Liverpool Red Diary 28

by Joel Rookwood

It's well known that I like my football - I've lived and breathed the game for most of my life, and people often ask me what my most memorable moment in the game is. And every single time I'm faced with that question my mind turns to one particular day. It's not the double win in 1986, the treble successes of '84 or 2001, or the glory of Wembley, Rome or Cardiff. In fact there wasn't even a football match going on.

Predictably the location was Anfield, and the date was April 16th 1989. The previous day was undoubtedly the most heartbreaking in the history of Liverpool football club, as ninety-six Liverpool fans lost their lives at the FA Cup semi-final clash against Nottingham Forrest at Hillsborough, the ground of Sheffield Wednesday.

Everyone remembers where they were that afternoon. I wasn't at the match, I was at a friend's party in south Liverpool, but I can remember the game of football we were playing being stopped, with everyone crowding around a TV, to see the horrific scenes unfold in front of our eyes.

The weeks that led up to Tim's party were exciting times. His dad was a wealthy man, and had promised to try and get us all tickets for the semi-final. As it turned out he couldn't get enough tickets, so rather than take a few of us, he had decided to forget the idea and hold a party that all of Tim's friends could go to. As we watched the horrendous scenes broadcast live on the BBC, I remember looking at Tim's dad, who had gone completely white, some achievement for a man of Asian extraction. He was no doubt considering the enormity of what could have happened, had his quest for more tickets been successful.

The following day, along with just about every other inhabitant of Liverpool, I went to Anfield to pay my respects. My best friend's mum took a few of us to the Kop. They were all Evertonians, but that didn't matter. This was a time when collective and private mourning belittled the importance of cultural identity. Even then I realised that it didn't matter who you supported. In the playground at school, kids would go around asking people, 'Livvy or Evvey?' The answers they got never deviated from the two options on offer. You were either red or blue - it was as simple as that. But in the time following Hillsborough, that differentiation disintegrated. You were just a Scouser, with Blue and Red coming together, as the following poem written by Rita Soo in 1989 explains:

I made a pilgrimage to Anfield
On a sunny April day
To lay a humble tribute, for the souls who passed away.
My heart was filled with sorrow
Tears I couldn't hide
I saw tributes all in colours
Intermingled side by side
It's as though a field of flowers
Had sprung up overnight
All rivalry forgotten, no bitterness in sight
That sad procession passes in their silent reverie
Their love and understanding for all the world to see
As I looked into their faces
I saw pride as well as pain
Dear God in Heaven up above
Don't let them die in vain
One family together, united in our grief
A silent tear, a quiet prayer
For those who fell asleep.

I now live in an era where relationships between fans of Liverpool and Everton at the match can be strained, with next week's derby likely to emphasise this unfortunate fact. But back then things were different. Times were hard in Liverpool in the 1980s, but Merseyside had the top two sides in the country, and football was a release from the pressures of every day life. As people pulled together, there was rivalry, but it was always friendly.

So I can tell you that the most profound and memorable moment I've ever had in football, indeed the proudest yet most poignant moment of my life was at Anfield that Sunday morning. Outside the ground there was a 'mile of scarves', a line of Everton and Liverpool scarves tied together stretching between the two grounds across Stanley Park, the land that separates Merseyside's two Meccas of football. Even at that age I appreciated the symbolism. It was a show of unity that incited such intense pride in the midst of such distress.

The slow walk we then took across the Kop when entering the ground is something I'll never forget. As an eight year old the mass of flowers and tributes which filled the pitch and the Spion Kop stand was the most amazing sight I had ever witnessed, and to this day it remains the most moving scene I have ever experienced. I had never stood on the Spion Kop in such poignant circumstances when it was so bare and quiet yet so full of colour and beauty.

My favourite Liverpool hat was placed on the Kop that day, along with my scarf. When you're eight, such items are your pride and joy, yet to this day I haven't once regretted parting with them that morning. I didn't go to Anfield intending to do it, but as I looked around and saw the variety of tributes for those who had perished, it was the natural thing to do. Everyone wanted to pay their respects.

The Kop was our home, our church, our shrine. Hundreds have had their ashes scattered at that part of Anfield, and the connection people feel with that terrace was undoubtedly intensified that day. Even for those who would choose to never again see Liverpool play. Uncontrollable grief and pain brought people together that Sunday morning in April, and there was only one place people wanted to be. The entire city seemed to flock instinctively to the Kop.

There is a great deal of bitterness surrounding the issue of why this disaster was allowed to happen and understandably so. But instead of protesting against the comments and actions of the likes of Thatcher, Clough and Duckenfield (the latter being the man in charge of the match day police) or the media coverage from the Scum among others in the aftermath of the disaster, I'd prefer instead to simply remember respectfully those who died on that fateful day, and say a prayer for their respective families:

John Alfred Anderson (62)
Thomas Howard (39)
Colin Mark Ashcroft (19)
Thomas Anthony Howard (14)
James Gary Aspinall (18)
Eric George Hughes (42)
Kester Roger Marcus Ball (16)
Alan Johnston (29)
Gerard Bernard Patrick Baron (67)
Christine Anne Jones (27)
Simon Bell (17)
Gary Philip Jones (18)
Barry Sidney Bennett (26)
Richard Jones (25)
David John Benson (22)
Nicholas Peter Joynes (27)
David William Birtle (22)
Anthony Peter Kelly (29)
Tony Bland (22)
Michael David Kelly (38)
Paul David Brady (21)
Carl David Lewis (18)
Andrew Mark Brookes (26)
David William Mather (19)
Carl Brown (18)
Brian Christopher Mathews (38)
David Steven Brown (25)
Francis Joseph McAllister (27)
Henry Thomas Burke (47)
John McBrien (18)
Peter Andrew Burkett (24)
Marion Hazel McCabe (21)
Paul William Carlile (19)
Joseph Daniel McCarthy (21)
Raymond Thomas Chapman (50)
Peter McDonnell (21)
Gary Christopher Church (19)
Alan McGlone (28)
Joseph Clark (29)
Keith McGrath (17)
Paul Clark (18)
Paul Brian Murray (14)
Gary Collins (22)
Lee Nicol (14)
Stephen Paul Copoc (20)
Stephen Francis O'Neill (17)
Tracey Elizabeth Cox (23)
Jonathon Owens (18)
James Philip Delaney (19)
William Roy Pemberton (23)
Christopher Barry Devonside (18)
Carl William Rimmer (21)
Christopher Edwards (29)
David George Rimmer (38)
Vincent Michael Fitzsimmons (34)
Graham John Roberts (24)
Thomas Steven Fox (21)
Steven Joseph Robinson (17)
Jon-Paul Gilhooley (10)
Henry Charles Rogers (17)
Barry Glover (27)
Colin Andrew Hugh
William Sefton (23)
Ian Thomas Glover (20)
Inger Shah (38)
Derrick George Godwin (24)
Paula Ann Smith (26)
Roy Harry Hamilton (34)
Adam Edward Spearritt (14)
Philip Hammond (14)
Philip John Steele (15)
Eric Hankin (33)
David Leonard Thomas (23)
Gary Harrison (27)
Patrik John Thompson (35)
Stephen Francis Harrison (31)
Peter Reuben Thompson (30)
Peter Andrew Harrison (15)
Stuart Paul William Thompson (17)
David Hawley (39)
Peter Francis Tootle (21)
James Robert Hennessy (29)
Christopher James Traynor (26)
Paul Anthony Hewitson (26)
Martin Kevin Traynor (16)
Carl Darren Hewitt (17)
Kevin Tyrrell (15)
Nicholas Michael Hewitt (16)
Colin Wafer (19)
Sarah Louise Hicks (19)
Ian David Whelan (19)
Victoria Jane Hicks (15)
Martin Kenneth Wild (29)
Gordon Rodney Horn (20)
Kevin Daniel Williams (15)
Arthur Horrocks (41)
Graham John Wright (17)

There's a memorial service held every year on the Kop in remembrance of those who lost their lives, with a minute's silence at 3:06, the time the referee stopped the game. I sit in the Paddock these days, the stand adjacent to the Kop, but for this service I always get there early so I can assume the same place where I used to stand as a kid. Today was the service marking the fourteenth anniversary, and if ever proof were needed that the victims will never be forgotten then this was it.

Several thousand sat on the Kop for the service, and there seemed to be considerably more present than there was last year. The service assumed a similar format to that of recent years, with the names of the ninety-six read out, and a candle lit for each one. Hymns were sang and readings and prayers were read, with the minute's silence impeccably observed at 3.06.

Trevor Hicks, the chairman of the Hillsborough Families Support Group, shared accounts of the day and the continuing quest for justice, referring to the cover up mission from the Sheffield Police by saying that he,
"…Wouldn't like to comment on the rumour that the Iraqi minister of information served his apprentice in South Yorkshire." You don't really expect jokes at a service like this, but we are Liverpudlians after all, so a bit of humour, well timed and delivered never hurts.

The serviced finished with the collective singing of 'You'll never walk alone', led by Gerry Marsden and a local actor. Never has this anthem been so fitting. If the people of this city clung to this song before 1989, then post-Hillsborough, it has become more intertwined with the fabric of the club than every before. As we sung I saw an old lady holding a scarf aloft, which, it would seem there was nothing particularly remarkable about, given that several people did likewise. But the scarf was a half Liverpool half Everton scarf, undoubtedly from the 1989 season. That, as much as anything at that moment, contributed to the tear that trickled down my face. April 15th is always a sad occasion, but once again this date was one where I was filled with immense pride to be from this wonderful city. She'll never know it, but I'm grateful to that elderly lady for reminding me what the city was once like.I'd like to close if I may with the following poem that was read out at last year's memorial service, which is as moving now as it was then:

A schoolboy holds a leather ball
In a photograph on a bedroom wall
The bed is made, the curtains drawn
As silence greets the break of dawn.

The dusk gives way to morning light
Revealing shades of red and white
Which hang from posters locked in time
Of the Liverpool team of 89.

Upon a pale white quilted sheet
A football kit is folded neat
With a yellow scarf, trimmed with red
And some football boots beside the bed.

In hope, the room awakes each day,
To see the boy who used to play
But once again it wakes alone
For this young boy's not coming home.

Outside, the springtime fills the air
The smell of life is everywhere
Viola's bloom and tulips grow
While daffodils dance heel to toe.

These should have been such special times
For a boy who'd now be in his prime
But spring forever turned to grey
In the Yorkshire sun, one April day.

The clock was locked on 3.06
As sun shone down upon the pitch
Lighting up faces etched in pain
As death descended on Leppings Lane.

Between the bars an arm is raised
Amidst a human tidal wave
A young hand yearning to be saved
Grows weak inside this deathly cage.

A boy not barely in his teens
Is lost amongst the dying screams
A body too frail to fight for breath
Is drowned below a sea of death

His outstretched arm then disappears
To signal thirteen years of tears
As 96 souls of those who fell
Await the toll of the justice bell.

Ever since that disastrous day
A vision often comes my way
I reach and grab his outstretched arm
Then pull him up away from harm.

We both embrace with tear filled eyes
I then awake to realise
It's the same old dream I have each week
As I quietly cry myself to sleep.

On April the 15th every year
When all is calm and skies are clear
Beneath a glowing Yorkshire moon
A lone Scots piper plays a tune.

The tune rings out the justice cause
Then blows due west across the moors
It passes by the eternal flame
Then engulfs a young boys picture frame.

His room is as it was that day
For thirteen years its stayed that way
Untouched and frozen forever in time
Since that tragic day in 89.

And as it plays its haunting sound
Tears are heard from miles around
They're tears from families of those who fell
Awaiting the toll of the Justice bell.

Lest we forget the ninety-six. Look after them Shanks.

"The Onside In-Site" Copyright © From 2000. All rights reserved. Soccerphile Ltd.