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26 years

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Silver Sean

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26 years ago today I went to a football match with my old man. He went into the main stand, I went into the Leppings Lane, just as I had done the previous year. This time though I would wake up three days later not knowing why I was in a hospital bed, not understanding why I couldn't speak or why there were Notts Forest players around my bed, or why my dad was having a long conversation with Ian St John as the Saint sat on the end of my bed.

Today I remember the 96 who never came home, but I also remember the survivors who have had to live with this horror for over two and a half decades. The young lad Gary who pulled me out of the crowd, refused to accept the copper's verdict that I was gone, and with his mates put me on an advertising hoarding and into the back of an ambulance. My best mate's dad who had a hunch i was there and drove from Stockport to the hospital and lied that he was a relative so he could identify me and call my Mum. My dad who never got over it and died without knowing the truth is finally out, the nurses and doctors who kept me alive as the families of Tony Bland and others watched their own loved ones die or be taken from them. The lad Sean who I have met at numerous games since who has to live with brain damage that affects his speech and his capacity and has to go with his mates who help him. My mate's brother-in-law who pulled people up into the upper tier and has never got over it. The huge Scouser I had to hug on the steps at Wembley at the '89 cup final, who cried for his dead brother as the first half was being played.

I also think of the families that have fought so hard for the new inquests and Shelia Coleman who has helped me put my life back together through the HJC.

So let's remember the true reds who went that day to support our team, let's think of them as they were that day, joyous, buoyant, full of life and love and laughter – the travelling Kop roaring on the team. They are not just a number, they are us.
 


One of the crazy things for me is that as I have no recollection of anything between getting to the ground and waking up on the Tuesday I've poured over any footage and images I can find all these years in the hope that I'll see myself. It's almost as if I can't believe I was actually there. Apparently that's a huge part of my PTSD and survivor guilt. I think I found a photo of me once but it's all so weird.
 
One of the crazy things for me is that as I have no recollection of anything between getting to the ground and waking up on the Tuesday I've poured over any footage and images I can find all these years in the hope that I'll see myself. It's almost as if I can't believe I was actually there. Apparently that's a huge part of my PTSD and survivor guilt. I think I found a photo of me once but it's all so weird.

I can imagine... well I can't

You know what I mean...

I find it difficult to watch any footage..
 
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