HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED.

[Oncy]

[size=12pt]On the 15th April in the year of 1989.[/size]


On the 15th April in the year of 1989 Liverpool supporters arrived in Sheffield along with fans of rival giants Nottingham Forest.
Between 2.30 and 2.40 a crush began outside one of the pens in the Leppings lane enclosure, the Police on duty took the decision to open a gate intended as an exit, a gate which had no turnstile. This decision was taken to ease the crush forming outside the ground as fans with and without tickets were pushed forward together causing a bottleneck. The decision to open these gates and the still unexplained reasons why the Police were not present inside the enclosure to direct the fans (upwards towards 5000) into the side pens to ease the crush on the main pen caused more and more fans to pour into the already overcrowded main pen (Pen, what an awful word for a place such as this) this resulted in the fans at the front nearest to the pitch being crushed against the metal fences erected to avoid crowd trouble and pitch invasions at matches, but inexplicably without some kind of emergency release/gateway.
At 3.06 the football game that the fans had turned up to watch was stopped as fans climbed over the fence to escape the crush and others were pulled to safety in the stands above.
Fans of Liverpool football club injured and gasping for air spilled onto the pitch and those fit enough attempted to carry the injured and the dying to the single ambulance that was allowed into the ground (dozens were turned away) they were repelled by the police who were deployed not to help tend the victims of this tragedy but to protect the Nottingham Forest fans in the other end of the ground. The help that was needed didnt arrive and the woeful supplies of medical supplies at the ground didnt include oxygen.

On the 15th April in the year 1989, 96 Liverpool football fans lost their lives.

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

In the following years no inquiry has brought to justice those responsible for this loss of life. No one has been held accountable for the failings of that day, and the families of the deceased are still to find peace and a form of closure in their attempts to come to understand what happened that day.

Nothing will ever bring back the loved ones lost on that day, but we must never allow ourselves to take them for granted. We must always remember and honour them. In the following pages i have asked a number of people to contribute to a thread which will remain here open at all times for posters to read and to pass comment upon. These are pieces about Liverpool football club, and although in rememberence of Hillsborough i asked these posters if they felt it too difficult to write about, they need not do, but could write about Liverpool and what it means to them. Please might i ask that those who have asked to remain anonymous are respected.
It is 20 years ago this week and to mark that event (although no great sense of occasion can be felt) we the moderators of 6CM wish to thank you all for being a small part of a great thing in Liverpool football club. We are all supporters and fans of this football club, and we must help the future generations to remember the past, i hope in some way this has acheived that for you and for hopefully generations of fans to come.

The only request i would make is that in this thread you show the respect and the decency that it deserves.

Thank you my friends
YNWA

From

Us.

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

I remember it like yesterday - 8 years old -watching at the front window from 11 a.m. for my Aunts boyfriend, Alan, to collect me. Even though he wasn't coming until 1, I was going to the game. The

fucking game ! Liverpool vs Stoke. To go and watch those heroes you could only watch in absolute awe at on the telly. Those players whose Panini stickers you'd barter and beg with your best swaps for - just so you could complete your Liverpool team - moustaches and perms a plenty. Buying an extra pack of stickers with your dinner money and opening it carefully so no collateral damage. "Yessssssss, Jimmy Case. Get In !!! ". Well worth the price of a couple of jam roly-polies.

Finally, my chaperone arrives. My coats already on, snorkel up, ready to roll. "Are you ready lad??? ". "YEAH!!!" I reply eagerly yet nervously. Never went the match with my dad - he was a

bluenose and never an avid fan of footy so my football education consisted of Match of The Day and the Shoot magazine. To an 8 year old scouser, that meant watching and reading about

Liverpool FC. They were simply the bestest team in the world. Ever. Ner.

We grab the number 21 bus and jump off at County Road and set off up towards the ground. The closer we get, the more the crowd and the excitement builds - I'm nearly pissing myself with
anticipation. We make a stop outside the ground where I receive the obligatory first-match scarf, badge and programme. Rattles were a thing of the past. Bastard. They're fucking ace they are.

Finally, we enter the ground - Annie Road end - can't have it all. A short few steps and...my God. It's amazing. I don't know where to look first - I'm awestruck. The noise, the songs, the colours -I'm speechless.

5 minutes from kick-off and full standing compliment of the old Kop roar out "You'll Never Walk Alone". Too young to have a lump in my throat and to understand the true meaning of this great
song but, regardless of this, the air's electric. The bumfluff hairs on your neck bristling. Kick off. I'll be honest - I remember little about the game. We won 5-0, I know that. The biggest memory I have of that day though was when the first goal went in. This absolute eruption of sound - a communal scream of celebration so loud it made your ears crackle. That was it. I was hooked.

I didn't get the match much for the next 10 years - what with my old man being a bluenose and my aunt splitting up with Alan. I mean, HOW inconsiderate was that ? Got to the odd game with my
cousin when my Aunty Philly, who worked in the players canteen, could rustle us up some tickets. She also got me a signed team photo when I was sick with perotonitis in Alder Hey too - what a star she is.

Once I started working - I was able to go to the match loads more using my own money. Money well spent. Now been a regular match-goer for 20 years. And what does it all mean ? What does
Liverpool FC mean to me ?

It's a massive part of my life. The most important thing ? No, but vastly important nonetheless. To sum it up in one word - emotion. The joy it brings. The pain it brings also. The buzz. The deflation. The camaraderie. The endless debates, analysis and difference of opinion over a post-match pint. The smiles. The tears. The friendships it brings.

The feelings of absolute euphoria when it finally dawns you've won the league or a cup. To feel, at that moment in time when that final whistle blows, that you're part of something that's one of the greatest things in the world. The feeling of invincibility. Knowing those around you are sharing in that moment of glory. There's nothing else that compares to it.

Those moments of greatness that are forever tempered with feelings of shock and sadness from the likes of Hillsborough and Heysel. Hillsborough - although I wasn't at the game - remembering every minute of that awful day and the sickening feeling that evolved as the news filtered through and just got worse. And worse. Remembering also how it united the city in grief, both Blue and Red. Remembering hundreds of people sitting on the steps of the bombed-out church on the night of April 15th 1989 and people singing YWNA. Remembering - and never forgetting - that people that day went to watch a game of football and never came back. It should never have happened and we should never forget. Ever. A lad I went to junior school with, who lived in the next road, died that day. We used to hang round as kids years earlier. Realising someone the same age as me, and I knew, would never see another sunrise was a sombering thought. Seeing what it did to people who were there that day was also heartbreaking. It took a mate of mine - one of the most solid lads you'd meet - years before he could face either talking about it or being around crowds.

Liverpool FC's history is long and eventful. Full of victory and sadness. It's that history, and being part of it, that makes us what we are. As a football club, we're unique in my eyes. It's not about the victories or losses in my eyes that makes us what we are. It's the fact that - whatever fate me meet - we do it together. As a club - fans, staff and players alike. As one. Together. And for those in the football community who criticise us, mock us, call us murderers, whatever..it doesn't matter. For we don't care, you cannot hurt us and you will never understand us. We are Liverpool Football Club and we Never Walk Alone.

[size=16pt]Written by Sunny.[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

Though I was a mere 7 year old when I watched it unfold (Grandstand?) I realised that this was worse than anything I'd seen before. My Dad had just returned from the pub and hated football, but didn't turn the channel over when he got in, and I knew it was significant. More recently a close friend of mine (now 50) who wouldn't talk about Hillsborough for years told me this story (apologies since it may not be exact as he only told me the once):

He went down to Hillsborough for the game and popped into a pub beforehand to meet his brother. They were planning to meet a mutual friend who had tickets for them. They assumed this was in the Leppings Lane terrace, though the provider had also promised tickets for another 2 random people. 2 of his tickets were Leppings Lane and 2 were the one above (West Stand?). As they couldn't come to an agreement on who should have what, they tossed a coin. My friend and his brother watched the game from the West Stand.

And right on cue came the stupid question from myself:

"Did you find out the name's of the other 2 people?"

His response was the obvious one... "No, why would we have done that? We were only going to watch a game of football".

To this day he doesn't know.

Despite not going for years I decided to attend the Hillsborough memorial last year. Despite being in the Albert before a game countless times this time was markedly different. It was very busy, but there was total silence. I had never experienced it before. The silence was only broken occasionally by the odd person bursting into tears. I had prepared for an emotional time once on the Kop that afternoon, but was completely unprepared for what happened in the Albert beforehand. I was a mere 26 year old Mancunian. I suddenly felt in my own mind I had no right to be there amongst people who had actually lived it.

I will admire the courage of those people always.

YNWA 96. Never to be forgotten.

[size=16pt]Written by SaintGeorge67[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

When Dave, Steve, me and Neil set off for Hillsborough in 1989 we were slightly different people from the ones that returned later that day.
It was the same as the journey that we made not long ago to the same destination, the same route and parked in the same area and walked through the same streets. Although this time there was not a ring of police in the streets some way away from the ground checking tickets like there was then, and we were perhaps slightly later, by about ten to fifteen minutes, but still in plenty of time.
We were in the in the West Stand this year, and not the Leppings Lane terrace. The one thing I remembered about that area was the dark dank tunnel leading through to the standing area with the lavatories off to the side.
Another thing that was different was that even though we were in good time there was a lot of pushing and shoving and a build up at the turnstiles, the Leppings lane end entrance was right next to the West Stand, as to if it was just volume or the passage through the turnstiles was slower I don’t know.
As far as we and almost everyone else in the ground everything was just as any other match until just after kick-off.
I think the first we were aware of it was the Forest fans started singing something about us causing trouble. We looked down, our seats were midway up the stand overlooking the Leppings Lane and saw people climbing over the fences. Sadly our first reaction was the same - we were causing trouble, but it did not take too long to see what was happening below us.
It seems to be this thread of jumping to conclusions that runs through things. Even as far into it as the ambulance getting on the pitch and being told we were fighting.
Have a read of Tony Edwards the ambulance mans story, (http://forums.multiplay.co.uk/856358-post3.html )
The whole tragedy panned out before our very eyes. Floppy figures being dragged out, people giving the kiss of life in vain, grief stricken friends on the pitch, bodies bouncing along on advertising hoarding’s that were now make-shift stretchers. Eventually an ambulance came on the pitch.
There were people everywhere on the pitch the police really had no idea how to deal with the enormity of it all most of them were as much victims of the situation as most of us. Loads of people were being pulled up from the terrace below into our stand to safety.
Eventually it quietened down and it was obvious there had been loss of life, how many would remain a mystery for some time.
I went for a piss if you stood on tip toe the step of the urinal trough, you could see through the small windows at the top. These overlooked the River Don. Lined up on the ground there I saw what I think was about six to eight body bags. I told my friends what I had seen and this figure in itself was bad enough.
I don’t know what time it was when we were let out of the ground to make our way back. This was in the time before mobile phones and so every phone box was lost in a sea of red and white , the further we travelled the less the crowds around the public phones. The journey home was like a nightmare in itself the car silent in the main but for the radio, with every mile we travelled the death toll went up. It started off with less than I had physically seen so we had an idea what was in store.
What really brought home the scale of the situation was when we go back to our local all our wives , girlfriends and mates had gathered there knowing we had to get the others cars, I think we only went in for a piss but they all ran up to us hugging and kissing as if we had just returned from the front line, there were some similarities I suppose.
I don’t know exactly how it happened but it happened and we can’t turn back time. It was an accumulation of circumstances, we have been through them over and over again. Whatever we do, It won’t bring back the 96 and it won’t stop the grief. In the main the reasons have been identified and acted on, in the main the guilty have been identified , they and others that are culpable will have to live with themselves.

Like other sad chapters in history it does not do to forget, but I really do think we need to start letting go a bit now. People have worked tirelessly for the answers for twenty years, we know most of them, but I am not sure we will ever complete that search.
Dave, Steve Neil and I returned, 96 people did not, and many hundreds were more directly affected than us, as I said we returned slightly different people, in some ways strange as it may seem, slightly better people, perhaps more compassionate, more understanding, more caring but certainly more appreciative of those around us.

regards

[size=16pt]Written by Vlads Quiff[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

At 38 years of age, i've seen and experienced many moments in life that will never leave me. Moments from my childhood and moments with my family and my children that were so happy that there are times I can see, feel and hear them in my mind with such lucidity that they feel as real now as they did then. As a lifelong Liverpool fan, of course I can clearly remember many of the amazing memories that our club has given us over the years. Istanbul seems like yesterday. I remember arriving at the pub a few minutes late to see that we were already down a goal, only to cry into my beer as we conceded another two. The rest is history as we achieved the impossible, as only we could, and turned the football world on it's head by showing the kind of spirit we are famed for by going on to win that wonderful trophy that wonderful night.

Sadly, along with the wonderful moments in life, there are the tragic moments you experience that you know will always haunt you. Memories of such moments that are triggered all too often by certain words or times of the year. April 15th. The number 96. I often hear either that particular date or that particular number, and I can't help but think of Hillsborough. I was dragged shopping by my parents that afternoon. I remember casually walking past the Currys store in West Bromwich town centre only to see every TV set tuned into pictures of thousands of people stood around on a pitch somewhere. I had no idea what was going on at the time and certainly couldn't have imagined the horror of what was actually occurring. I remember going into the store and freezing when I realised just was was happening. Sights and sounds around me disappeared as I focussed on the images on the screens showing live footage of the disaster. My eyes filled as the gravity of the situation became increasingly, sickeningly apparent. My mind became torn between feelings of helplessness, sadness and rage. 96 people. 96 of our people. 96 brothers and sisters. 96 brothers and sisters who shall never be forgotten.

[size=16pt]Written by Foureyes[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

There was a lad in my year at school called Stuart Thompson. Stuey.
I can only vaguely remember what he looked like: unremarkable.

He wasn't the most popular boy in school, nor the least popular; not sharp, good-looking or witty; not academically bright; not particularly hard; not even passably good at football.

I didn't know him that well, he certainly wasn't my friend, and he left school at 16. To do what, I have no idea.

But out of all the people I went to school with, he is probably the one I think about most.

What would he look like at 20? 30? What job would he do? Would he have kids? Travel? Leave Liverpool for another city or country? Would he be happy in later life? Succeed at whatever he did? Reinvent himself totally? Find God?

I think about these things because Stuart wouldn't do any of these things.

He died at the age of 17, with 95 other Liverpool fans on April 15th 1989.

Apart from where we went to school, the only thing Stuart and I had in common was supporting Liverpool.

And that's enough.

[size=16pt]Written Anonymously[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

When we were students at Liverpool University in the 1960’s, my friend Tony and I hitched to many Liverpool away matches. One time we hitched down to London to see Fulham v Liverpool. The match was on Saturday afternoon, and we set off for London on Friday evening. As it turned out, we were very lucky with our lifts, so that we arrived in London on Friday night with nowhere to stay. We went into Hyde Park, and tried to sleep in the seats of a café by the Serpentine. It was cold and dark, and the water of the lake made a constant babble. We could not sleep, so we went to Victoria railway station and tried to sleep on the seats there.

The match was a disappointment – Liverpool lost, I think it was 2-1, and Ian St. John was sent off by the referee after knocking Fulham’s Mark Pearson unconscious with a right hook which any boxer would be proud of. That was the highlight of the trip. St. John was angry because Pearson had grabbed hold of his hair and pulled him to the ground. That tells you something about how long ago it was.

After the match, we headed for the Liverpool supporters’ coaches to see if there were any spare seats. One of the drivers said that he had two empty seats, because the occupants had not returned from the match. If we paid him ten shillings each we could have their seats. Unfortunately, as the coach was starting off, the proper occupants of the seats arrived, so we had to stand up at the front of the bus. As we drove through the night, I was so tired that I kept falling asleep, but as soon as I started to fall, I woke up every time. To think we used to do those things for fun!

On another occasion we hitched to Nottingham to watch Forest v Liverpool. I can’t remember anything of the match, but I do remember getting stuck on the Uttoxeter by-pass on the return journey, in the middle of a cold, wet night. We stood there in the rain but there was only a vehicle about every ten minutes, and nobody was stopping for us. After an hour or so, to our surprise and delight, a lorry stopped. We climbed into the cab to find it packed with Liverpool fans eating chips. The warmth and the aroma of chips and vinegar were like heaven.

Although we were students, and therefore on the way to middle-classness, we never encountered anything except kindness and friendship from other Kopites. Liverpool fans really are the salt of the earth. When I saw Brad Friedel being applauded off the field by the Anfield crowd on 22/03/09, I felt proud to counted among their number. No body of fans are so knowledgeable about the game and ready to give credit to the opposition when their football deserves it.

How cruel it was that 96 of those fantastic Liverpool supporters should have lost their lives at Hillsborough. In spite of the conclusions of the Taylor Report, most people around the UK prefer to believe that the disaster was somehow our fault, that it involved drunkenness or unruly behaviour. Sometimes I find this uncaring ignorance unbearable. But people believe what they want to believe. There is little we can do.

[size=16pt]Written by Portly[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

My memories of 15th April 1989.

One sunny day………… one sad sunny day. My memories of that fateful day are few and fuzzy, I was 11 years old and a half. I had been looking forward to the day to watch my team in the semi finals, the whole school was buzzing. Mum and Dad and me were off to Sheffield. The car was cramped with Mums’ friends’ 2 sons bumming a lift too, both of them in their late teens (Gary and I cant remember the other one). We set off early, and arrive in plenty of time. The 2 lads went off to do their own thing and we headed for a pint, or a coke in my case. I distinctly remember my Dad wanting to get one last pint, but my Mum said “No, it is half past 2 now and we will be lateâ€. Dad buckled as usual and we headed down to the ground. We walked past the already rammed Leppings Lane End, where I was ushered well away from the crowds gathering. I again remember my Mum commenting on how busy it was, and how the previous year we had been allocated the other end.
We arrived in our seats around quarter to three, right on the halfway line quite near the back. Again I remember my Mum pointing at the end to our left and commenting on how busy it was. She was a fan who had travelled everywhere and seen some massive crowds. She nearly got knocked over and crushed in a mad surging crowd when she was 6 months pregnant with me and my brother, vs Wolves in 1977.
As the game started, I remember my Mum already in tears, she knew what was unfurling in front of her eyes. The side pens were empty, the central pens were crammed, Mum was in tears as she knew where Gary and his brother had tickets for.

The next hour was a blur. I recall seeing people climbing up to the upper tier, the hoardings used as makeshift stretchers, Mum pointing out people doing CPR, the odd ambulance or two, and the eerie atmosphere of hustle-cum-silence.
We stayed in the ground until announcements were made, although everyone knew something so tragic was unfurling. We walked out of the ground, numb, and headed to the meeting point where we were due to meet Gary and his bro. We had arranged to meet by a postbox at half 5. By 6pm, all we had seen was men, fully grown men, sobbing like children. I hadn’t cried. Death was an avenue unexplored for me at that age. But Mum had phoned Grandad, who was minding my brothers Peter and Neil and Mark. Grandad broke the news that there were deaths, dozens, at a football match. Mum cried some more. She still maintains that if Dad would have bought another pint, then we would have been walking past the Leppings Lane End at five to three, and probably been dragged into it as the crowds surged.
Half past 6 saw the arrival of Gary and his brother, both crying uncontrollably. Mum acted like a surrogate Mum to them, hugging them and attempting to console them. They spent ages talking to Mum and Dad, a conversation that I was not privvy to. I don’t recall the journey home, but watching the events when I got in on the news.

The next few weeks, months, years even, were full of emotion and are clearer in my mind. One lad in my class had been pulled out of the crushes into the stand above. He was off school for weeks, and regularly burst into tears when he returned. I whiled away days at Anfield, stood on the Kop after delivering flowers to the pitch. I had owned 4 or 5 LFC scarves, which all ended tied on the railings of that famous old stand. I actually attended church quite a bit after that, maybe searching for comfort or just offering a prayer for those who had lost someone close. Even now, I always say a private prayer in my head when I walk past the memorial. I did not lose anyone close, anyone who I would call a friend or mate. Mum lost an old friend and worked with a girl who lost her son. But a little part of me died that day, maybe a part of me that was a child, watching things no child should see. Maybe it was a little part of me that is LFC, watching fans like my Mum and Dad, and Gary and his brother, lose their lives at a stupid game of football. We went to the rearranged game at Old Trafford, which we won. We also went to Wembley to play Everton. We went as a family but not with the blue half of the Windever clan as we did in 1986. We won that game too. And eventually lost the league on goal difference, as we all know. But none of it mattered. Shanks said that football is more important than life and death. 20 years on, I still disagree with the great man.
RIP the 96
xxx

[size=16pt]Written by Loch Ness Monster[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

During the months that followed the 1985 European cup final, the man who was at that time known as my father tried to explain to me why I should respect mortality. Taking time out to play football with me in the park. I was scared of the ball then. I would cower away from it, and hide when playing games at school. He would talk to me about life and how this moment that I stood in was only important if I understood the life that lead off from it.
I understood little of what he was trying to tell me. How could I be expected to?

For the minutes that preceeded the game that night I looked at him crying and wondered why. The game was still going to happen right? Liverpool would still win right?
I hate Michel Platini. I always have done. Even before that night. I hated his scruffy looks and his annoying gallic body language. I hated his little shorts and the way he always had his shirt hanging out. Most of all I hated his stupid hair. It was just really REALLY stupid and I hated it. I hated Boniek too, but then he was Ginger so that was acceptable.
The game was played and was dull and we lost. The first cup final I can reaaaaally remember properly and we lost, and the scruffy Frenchman scored the winning goal. How could things be worse or more significant in my life than this?

My ‘dad’ wasn’t a footballer. He wasn’t much of an anything when it came to sports. Standing 6’ 7†tall and built like a bread stick, he wasn’t the athletic type. How could he be expected to understand this sport that I had chosen as my lifes passion. He didn’t even understand that a leather caser was way better than a plastic blowaway from a garage forecourt.
He talked and I listened and nodded and as he spoke in my head im thinking ‘Im putting this one top corner, he wont save it’
39 People had died.Crushed by a dilapidated crumbling wall that was forced to crash down on them because of the actions of men. Men like me who loved football and wanted more than anything to see Liverpool crowned 5 time European cup finals. They stood in that crumbling old ground and never thought about their own mortality. Never thought about the lives of those they stood next too, brushed passed, excuse me’d and trod on the toes of. They never looked across at the sea of black and white and thought about their Italian counterparts willing their team forward to an improbable victory against the greatest team in the world at that time. They never once thought about history and how heavy it would weigh upon them and upon us all as we grasped to find our place in the world. They thought of the Liverbird, they thought about their tribe, and they thought about control. And the lack thereof resulted in the death of many and the injuring of many many more.

On that night in that stadium our support, our fans, our people, our family labelled us as thugs. They branded us as criminals. Men who came to watch a GAME of football charged with manslaughter. Its hard to put that into any kind of context isn’t it. When you are sat at a game looking around you, soaking in the sounds and sights and sensing the nervousness of the men women and children all around you. Its hard to think about the way things can slide away from you in life and how, as always ‘there but for the grace of God…’ and all that. Fifa took action and the actions of those men that night (on both sides of course) altered the course of our history. Im sure they must have been divisive but im too young to remember wether their actions split the cub or her support in anyway. I hope they did.

So.’Im putting it in the bottom left, he wont save it’ and im still not really listening. How can I be expected to when I’ve already learned that football is much more important than life and death.
On the night of the Heysel stadium disaster I was angry at the people who died. They made me wait for my football game, they made my Mum say ‘If it doesn’t start soon you’ll have to go to bed’ and threaten to ‘Video the game’. I was angry at them. I am not ashamed to say it because its how I felt, how could I deny it.
When I think back now I realise that I owe Robert Bell for his actions in those coming days. I couldn’t understand why he persisted in his perseverance of labouring his points. Get over it Dad, we lost. It went on for weeks. I didn’t believe I would ever understand what he was telling me. He would point at a man and say ‘Imagine that mans life laid out before him. Imagine his wife and his son, who he plays football with in the park. Imagine his friends who he plays cards with, imgine his friends and colleagues at work. Imagine his old mother who he visits on Sundays and who makes him Lentil soup. Imagine the woman who he helps with her bags and the man who’s car he helps push start. Imagine the vote that he casts changing the fortunes of a politician, that changes the lives of others. Imagine all this and how grand that life is and how important. Imagine it ending. Imagine all of these things falling apart as you take him out of the loop. Imagine how the lives of everyone could be affected by that. Then imagine it being multiplied by 39’ I nodded and narrowed my eyes the way people do when they are really taking something in. ‘He’s got it’ he would think.

On April 15th 1989 I finally understood.
I sat on my sofa in full Liverpool kit. With sweatbands on. I sat and I watched my Dad cry. And he looked at me and I couldn’t meet his gaze. I looked at my shoes, at the floor, at the wall, anywhere but at his question, or at the television.
I didn’t understand the scale of it. I didn’t understand the event in itself. It was too large for a boy of 14 to understand, a boy of 14 should never have to. But I saw the number of the dead rising and I wept. I wept for the son he played football with in the park, and for his work colleagues and his mother and the lady who’s shopping he carried. I sat in my house, on my street in Belfast and I wept for my family in Liverpool. I didn’t understand the deathtoll, but I understood that my people were in pain.
I don’t want to tell it how it was for me and pretend that that actually mattered or in fact that I have any right to lay claim to the emotions surrounding these events. I could never go to the rememberence ceremony, I would feel stupid. I would feel like an interloper, like a man trying to feed of someone elses grief. I cant stand near the memorial outside our ground. The first time I ever visited Anfield (maybe 2000) I was walking towards that place and I saw a man walking towards it with flowers, and he was crying and he knelt on the floor and his emotion poured out. It broke my heart to see this man that way. I vowed there and then never to stand next to that place, never to look at it. It may seem stupid to others but I feel I have no business being there.

There was little time to grieve for those not immediately affected there and then on there on that terrible day, we still had to be a football club and when the numbness went away for a time we still had to go and win matches. And we did culminating in that amazing football final at Wembley when I cried and cried as we won the cup. And that amazing night when I cried and cried as we lost the league.
I don’t know if anyone at all will understand this, but I think fondly to this day of Arsenal and Michael Thomas because they, on that night defined totally the difference between a game of football and life and death. They came into what must have been in all possible ways an Impossible situation, they could only have known that whatever they did, and whatever happened that night they would be the villains. They stepped out onto the pitch they showed the character of them as men and the will of them as footballers. And in doing that they became intrinsically linked with our history and that night, and that kit they wore and Michael Thomas standing on his head when he scored FINALLY taught me what my dad tried to many years earlier. I cried and cried and thought I would never stop, and my mum said ‘Its just a game son, theres always next year’ (she still says this the git) and I nodded and smiled at my dad and he nodded at me. I wiped away my tears and I hugged him and he said ‘Im sorry sunshine’ and I said ‘Thank you dad’ and hugged him a bit tighter.

For a long time I didn’t care about football anymore. I always kept an eye on our results of course but I (living in Belfast) didn’t need it as a crutch on which to step forward and keep going on. I just resented it. I felt like it had robbed me in some way of feeling anything real in those days preceeding Hillsborough. It took a long time for me to start to actually care again. But back I came, as I guess we all do, and I found myself allowing it to gain ground in my thoughts again, and allowing myself to feel emotional about football again, to love it, to need it and to not want to know what my life would be like without it.
And now I feel linked to the club and her fans more than ever. I feel like I have sacrificed something in a way, that I have felt a pain (not the same I would never suggest it is) and a loss that has made me come back stronger for it. I now feel the weight of history upon us and I carry the thoughts of those 96 with me wherever I go. I don’t think I could ever feel the way I did about a game of football, I don’t think I would care to. In a lot of ways Hillsborough was the end of my childhood, it made me look at things and think of things I never had before, it made me think about mortality it made me fear death.

Its 20 years ago this week, and I still cant deal with it as I suspect people should, I still cant walk up to the memorial (I still don’t think I have any business to) I still make jokes about death because I find it so hard to deal with the thoughts I have about it every single day. I still feel ashamed for my actions in 1985, I still feel mad at myself for rolling my eyes at my dad and for failing to grasp what was so very real. I think about the 96 and I cry, but now I cry for the 39 too, it took me a few years to understand that they deserve my tears too. I don’t honour just the dead of Hillsborough, I honour the death of everyone who like me has been touched by football. In particular those who are part of my family at Liverpool.

I often talk in a frilly way about you the fans, your families, your friends, and what you all mean to me, and its true. I am emotionally tied forever to this club and I wouldn’t want to be the person living the life I have and not have that in it. Its not more important than life and death, this is part of life and death. The internet has been a great tool for becoming closer to this community of ours, to be connected instantly to my brothers and sisters is a great thing and im thankful that I have you all this week to grieve with. It’s a long time is 20 years, and we must think about our future and not be embedded in the past, but we must never forget and you younger fans have an obligation to uphold that. Don’t think that because you weren’t there that this doesn’t effect you. Its part of you, and you need to understand it, and accept it, and be thankful that you didn’t have to live it.

I apologise for rambling but I have never really spoken about this before and I couldn’t allow myself to stop until I was finished.
I love you all, because you are my family, I love Liverpool because it is my home. I love Liverpool football club because it is my soul and I love the history of it for good and bad because its what defines me now as a man.
Thanks for listening,
YNWA.
x

[size=16pt]Written by Herr Onceared[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

1989.

I was 19 and loved my football. Football full stop. Any football. When Liverpool weren't playing I used to go to Goodison to watch Everton with one of my close mates at the time, Jay Burke, a dyed in the wool blue. I'd stand in the Gwladys Street end with him, sucking in the mid-week, floodlit, evening kick-off. Haven't seen him for years now.

I didn't go to Hillsborough. Desperate last ditch attempts to secure a ticket were fruitless so plans were made to go into town with Sunny and a few other school mates to sample the new phenomena that was Acid House. The Mardi Gras was the club of choice, a dingey sweat box where you could see the dance floor bellowing when you stood at the bar area on the level below.

The true horror of what had happened that day was just filtering through. I had some really close mates at the semi, one especially, Jay (not Jay on here), who lived in the same road as me. Every fifteen minutes I knocked at his mum's to see if she had any news of him. At 6.30pm I knocked and was was met by his mum who upon opening the door, gave me a big hug and told me his was safe. The relief was of that news was...well, words can't describe.

I went to town, met my mates and 'enjoyed' a rather subdued evening.

At 1.00pm the next day I was sitting in the front row of the Main Stand, staring at a sea of flowers and messages that spread across the Anfield pitch. Loads of lads I hung round with from Anfield and who had been the match were there, sitting in a dazed state. I was told that a lad I knew, Colin Wafer, who lived two roads down, had died. I remember his ginger hair and quiet demeanour. Half the time I can't remember what I did yesterday but 20 years on I can remember him.

With middle age I have become apathetic towards football. I've blamed crazy kick-off times, cost, shit football, the 'showbiz', crazy managers and although I've never cited the fact we haven't won the league for so long, that too is probably a contributing factor. I gave my season ticket away this season with a view to taking it back next season but up until today my plan was to let it go again.

Then, tonight, I watched Alan Hansen on Match Of The Day and the pain he showed recounting 15 April 1989 was clear to see. And it made me think. Liverpool Football Club has given me some of the most ecstatic and dark days of my life. Losing the title to Arsenal at Anfield countered by Istanbul. My first true pain watching us lose the '77 FA Cup Final to Utd, sobbing in my mum's lap in my now deceased Nan's house to a week later being allowed to stay up late, sitting in my dad's lap watching us lift Ol' Big Ears. Listening fascinated to the stories my dad told me about his time working at Anfield to being told, on a balmy August evening at Melwood that I wasn't good enough as a goalkeeper to make the grade professionally, crying as I got into my dad's car and walking away from the training ground for the last time. Sliding on my knees across my mum's tiled floor when we won the UEFA Cup under Houllier (and winning £1500 on a bet on us winning the treble) a month before my first child was born. Getting pissed on the Ramblas that same year, giggling then joining in full chorus at the song my mate had just made up... (to the tune of Boney M's 'Holiday')

"There's a man from France who makes us dance, Gerard Houllier"
"There's a man from France who makes us dance, Gerard Houllier"
"Houllier, Houllier"
"Gerard Houllier"
"There's a man from France who makes us dance, Gerard Houllier"

Nearly dying of a heart attack watching the penalty shoot-out at the Millenium Stadium against Birmingham, back at the same venue sitting despondently as Arsenal tore us a new arsehole only for little Michael to pop up twice to win us the FA Cup single-handedly, travelling home in the car feeling on top of the world despite nursing a bruised face having challenged a big fuck off man mountain of a Welsh Boyo to a scrum-off the night before where unfortunately my leather soled designer shoes didn't agree with both my drunken stupour or the Abedare cobbles, the latter which became very close acquitance with my grid.

It has given me friends from going the game and through here. Of late it has made me cynical, argumentative and disrespectful of servants of the club. But I know that at some point in the past it gave me a hunger in my belly. It gave me a sense of belonging. I was part of a special clan.

96 men, women, children, sons, daughters, husbands and wives felt like that, enough to follow their club to an ill-fated Saturday afternoon. Whether we win the league this season or go another 100 years without a league title, I'm starting to realise that I, we, support the most special football club there is and the joy, sorrow and history we share will never be eradicated.

That is a clan I want my son and daughter to be educated in, one that shares ecstacy and despair with dignity. The flags, the red, the crowd. I'd lost the passion for football but the anniversary of Hillsborough has reignited a passion and humility I thought I'd lost.

*As I write this, I've just received a phone call to say my wife's grandad has passed away. He was a red through and through and we were hoping he would make it to see his beloved Reds lift the Premiership title.


RIP Jack.

RIP The 96.

YNWA

[size=16pt]Written by Sheik Yerbouti[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

The Anniversary:

I can’t think about it

I won’t think about it

Except when I have to

Like today when I have to



I won’t think about the empty desks in schools

And the empty chairs at breakfast tables

Except when I have to

Like today when I have to



I won’t think about justice, lies and authority

And what I learned about these things

Except when I have to

Like today when I have to



I think about these things today

And sometimes when I hear our song

Or see that number somewhere or

Sometimes when someone mentions that year or

I hear that stadium’s name

Or I see that rag in a shop and the anger comes back

Looking as good as new



I won’t think about fathers

Like I am now

But wasn’t then

I won’t even try to think about them

Back in that time because no one should

Except today when I can’t help it

When I have to



I think about these things today

And sometimes when I see Dalglish’s old face again

And remember how I could see the man and the dad

For the first time

I can file it away in my mind

Label it ’do not open’

Until I see a pen with people in it

Or a makeshift stretcher

Or until I see a swathe of wreathes

Or scarves on a gate in some other place

And for some other reason.



I won’t think about the horror

About some people still carrying it with them

Every day

The pain and the terror that they felt

That day

I won’t think about if they’re dealing with

And if they’re dreaming of it

Except today

I think about it today

When I have to



I won’t think about posters on a boy’s wall

And taking them down

When do you take them down if you know he’s isn’t coming back?

I only let myself think about that today

When I have to



I don’t want to think about the mothers

Watching it on TV

Did someone say “stop frettin’ … he’ll be ok�

I can’t think about her

I can’t think about the hours and the news

But I do it today

Because I have to.

[size=16pt]Written Anonymously[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

"Gloryhunters". We're used to lobbing that one at Manc fans, and rightly so, but it was Liverpool fans - even Scousers like me - who got tarred with that brush during the glory days from the mid-1960s to 1990, when we routinely went 12-18 months unbeaten at home and won everything in sight.

My dad (not from Liverpool) was a Gooner, so I became a Red by choice as well as birthright when I decided as a nipper that I wanted my own team to follow and noticed that there was one called Liverpool. No glory-hunter me, though - at that time we were in what's now called the Championship, and I didn't really understand about all that anyway. William James Shankly of Glenbuck, Ayrshire - the giant on whose shoulders we all stand - arrived at the club at around the same time. In due course we got promoted, and a couple of years later we were champions. Little did we know (though Shanks might have done) what was to come.

It was in the 1970s that I began going to games. The most memorable one for me was against Stoke in the Cup one Saturday. Ian Callaghan (still on the right wing in my All-Time XI by the way) had got his MBE the previous Wednesday and both teams lined up to applaud him on to the pitch, after which Stoke proceeded to kick ten bells out of Cally and everyone else in a Liverpool shirt (some things never do change). We still won though, and one of the goals - a header from Keegan - was part of the MOTD opening montage for a long time afterwards.

Almost as entertaining were events on the other side of Stanley Park that afternoon. The bitters were also at home, against Altrincham who in those days were a good non-league side. At half-time the Anfield PA chimes in: "And now some news from our friends across the park. [Cue assorted abuse of all things bluenose, tinged with a degree of anticipation at something in the guy's voice...] Everton: nil. [BIG cheer goes up] Altrincham: TWO. [We were on the Kop that day and I swear the roof lifted a yard in the air.]" It turned out to be a partial mistake, as the full-time score was 0-0, but we still got our money's worth out of any bluenose stragglers we met trying to creep by on the other side of the street as we made our way home.

Later in the 1970s came three notable debuts for the club. In 1977 we won Bigears for the first time, and that was also the first Cup Final of any description involving LFC that I watched on a black-and white portable TV I'd bought the previous year. Over the years I've watched every Final of ours that I could on it, and we've won them all right up until 2007 and the rematch against Milan - which we let slip when we should have won. We're going to lose a big secret weapon when analogue shuts down.

Then, the following season, His Caledonian Majesty King Kenneth Mathieson Dalglish first stepped on to the pitch for us. Despite the votes which would now be cast for the force of nature that is Steven Gerrard, the King still gets mine as our greatest ever player, at least for now.

Among so much else of note in LFC's history, it's too easily forgotten what an amazing achievement it was to win Bigears in 1984 against Roma on their own ground. Yes, it went to pens.and Brucie's (in)famous rubber legs act, but fighting the home team to a standstill before then was a superb performance. Pity about Barney Rubble's rather wet little jump in the air after he slotted the winner, but you can't have everything!

That of course is when the darkness descended and LFC got caught up in tragedy. For my money the roots of both Heysel and Hillsborough lay in uncaring official incompetence over choice of ground. Heysel was a crumbling dump which should never have been chosen in 1985 and, after the problems of the previous year and the warnings to which they led, Hillsborough should never have been nominated in '89. Of course others did (or failed to do) their bit but, if better choices had been made in the first place OR officials had been willing to change their minds, something like 150 people might still be alive today, most of them fellow Reds. I happened to be in Nottingham the weekend after Hillsborough and the sympathy I saw and experienced was heartwarming, but it should never have been needed. May those we've lost rest in peace.

I won't dwell on the years of underachievement which began at the turn of the 90s, but being out of Europe was one big factor and I can claim a small part in the club's return from the ban. I had written to ask if we really had to put seats on the Kop. One Sunday evening (after we had given the bluenoses a good hiding the previous day) my phone rang and the voice on the other end introduced its owner as John Smith. I asked which one, to be greeted by the response: "Well, I'm phoning from Liverpool". It was in fact Sir John Smith, our chairman at the time, and we had a good old chinwag ending up with an agreement that I would write, in German, as an LFC supporter to UEFA's Secretary-General asking for the Europe ban to be lifted. They did lift it at the end of that season and, while there was obviously a lot more to it than just my letter, I like to think I did my little bit.

And boy, has it been worth it. Topping off the Treble with that unbelievable match against Alaves (the only time I've practically lost my voice by the end of a game) was amazing enough, but Istanbul? Now there was a straight-up miracle and a lesson to us all, not least to the rest of football, that the game's never over before the final whistle.

Istanbul was also the ultimate reminder that football's a team game, because unsung heroes were everywhere. Lord Frodsham, not long back from injury, standing on the sideline with the gleam of battle in his eyes when he was brought on, and slotting his pen.like a cobra striking; Djimi Traore, no less, making a vital goalline clearance when it was 3-3 and Milan were coming at us with all guns blazing; Milan Baros putting Stevie through for the pen.and then not letting Nesta barge past him into the area, so that Xabi had vital seconds to slot the rebound; Vlad Smicer, knowing he was playing his last game for us but still getting a vital goal with that daisy-cutter shot. Milan had the stars, but the heck with it - we got the Cup.

And yet, and yet....the last two barren decades in the league have been painful for all of us, but particularly for veterans like me who remember us as champions. The aim from now on HAS to be to get re-established back at the top of the Prem and challenge for the title every single season. Here's a thought - what better way to honour the memory of the 96 than to bring the Prem Trophy home in this 20th anniversary year, and dedicate it to them?

[size=16pt]Written by Judge Jules[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

Like most I was a Liverpool fan before I even knew what it mean to be a Liverpool fan. It was passed on like a gene that I, without consciousness or knowledge, accepted from my dad.

As the years went on, slowly I started to realise how special this world that my dad had drawn me into was. There was never one definitive moment, just pieces that paint the picture of something that’s beyond being captured in a word, finance or even, dare I say it, success.

A sense, somehow beyond logic, that I am bound to millions of people who I’ve never met or ever will. But somehow we are one, we share the same pain and the same joy. No matter where in the world this dotted community of mine is, there are moments in our lives that bound us together, because there are 90 minutes of our lives every week where we are bound by the same emotions. All clubs have fans, but there is something about the Liverpool fans that make us more a part of our club than others. Maybe it’s the un-ignorable voice of the Kop. Or maybe it’s just because we’ve been through more than most other clubs, meaning the Club leaned on it’s people, and it’s people sought refuge in the Club.

I’m too young to remember to real glory days, but I know with every Liverpool fan in the world, whether s/he is in a football pub in the states or up in the early hours in Malaysia, I share those moments of 25th May 2005. We were all on the same journey, the same tears and the same joy. I know what I felt in the 86th minutes of the 1996 FA Cup final was felt by you all.

However painful that moment was, it doesn’t come close to the deepest of wounds that this club and it’s people share. The darkest of hours that I’m too young to fully recollect. But what I lack in memory I find in the stories of fellow reds who did live through the horror.

15 April 1989

A date etched into the memory of every Liverpool fan forever. A day, like so many others, when Reds, just like us, went off to enjoy an afternoon of football. 96 of whom were never to return.

No words I, or a far more gifted writer than myself can write, will ever fully capture the desperation felt not only by those who were there but also their families watching on helplessly from a far.

Twenty years on, and those that fight for justice for their fallen Reds do as fiercely as they did all them years ago.

Twenty years on and a whole City and it’s allies from afar still refuse to go anywhere near the paper that lacked human decency and any journalistic integrity in the centre of the tragedy.

Twenty years on, and outside our club stands the ever lasting tribute to our fallen Reds, that every new young Red is taken to and educated. A duty of every older red to pass on. It’s only been a few months since I took my twelve year old cousin to Anfield for his first trip.

Twenty years on and the mere mention of Hillsborough means the hearts of hundreds and thousands of Reds sink, and eyes are immediately moist.

Twenty years on, and maybe Reds like me can never truly understand what those of you in the City suffered, but we’re still letting you know, you didn’t and don’t suffer alone.

Twenty years on and despite the most dramatic and meaningful of victories, the loudest of chants from the ever passionate Kop were for our fallen Reds. And that my friends, is what makes our Club so special, and what sets us apart from all others. No Club is so driven by us, it’s fans, as ours. No fans are as committed to each other as we are. To those beside us at the game, to those visiting the City for the first time, for those across seas over internet forums looking for match streams or, perhaps most importantly, to those before us. To those of Hillsborough or to those we lose but still feel part of like Liam Harker. Our clubs and fans commitment to their memories is what makes Us and Our Club so Special. Thank you Dad for introducing me to this world.

My little cousin's first Anfield experience wasn't without the essential history lesson. Taken May 2008.

[size=16pt]Written by Anita[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

I feel a bit stupid writing this as the emotions that resonate with me are obviously very different (and much weaker) from what most people on here have gone through..and still go through.

Some posters on here were there, and most knew people who went and didn’t come back. I don’t know anyone who was there; I didn’t have to sit up at night wondering if anyone was going to knock on my door.

It was this horrible thing which happened in a place I’d never been, and frankly till that date had never even heard of. I’d heard of Sheffield Wednesday of course, but didn’t know the name of their stadium. I mean, what the fuck’s a Leppings Lane?

We didn’t really have much access to many UK sports telecasts or even news then, too…No live website updates, no ticker-tape…So I never got to watch many games…except for a select few which would be telecast live due to some cigarette company sponsoring it in Malaysia..usually Alfred Dunhill.

I usually used to get my football news either from the next days papers or I’d struggle with my Dad’s radio trying to tune in to Martin Tyler on BBC World Service at 11.15 pm local time on Sat nite…No Football Focus or anything like that.

(Damn thing was fucking heavy and I’d carry it to the window to try to get better reception.It’s a bit strange to think of those days when we now have cable and streams and live commentary on a zillion web-sites)

Anyway, those of us who were here were a bit insulated from it, and shamefully, many of us were grateful for that.

I mean what was there to say?

95 people died (96 eventually, of course..but more on that later) suffocated by thousands upon thousands of fans, who only wanted to watch a football match.

This was not like the Bradford fire some years earlier. As shitty as that was, things like that happened. Fires break out, people die.

But not this. It wasn’t real. How could it be real?

It was an accident in a football stadium, 96 people can’t die in a stadium FFS.

That happens in plane crashes.

How does one face up to it?

I don’t think I can speak for many people; but I didn’t want to know what happened; it was easier to try to pretend it didn’t happen. The pain of knowing that so many people just like you weren’t around any more; and the only reason why was because they wanted to watch a game and support the team they loved. The same team I loved.

At the same time, I eagerly sought out information as to why and how it happened. I remember trudging along to the British Council to read some of the British papers.

(I know that sounds stupid, but it’s a bit like this : I read about the Ecclestone film and eagerly sought out the torrent and patiently downloaded it months ago…I sat down to watch it, but I switched it off when 'it' happened; my wife thought I was mental coz I made her sit down and watch it with me but then switched it off after about 40 mins)

I still haven’t finished it yet.

Anyway, after seeing the papers…I tried to shrug my shoulders to explain things away.It was an accident. A terrible accident.

One really bad thing about being so far away from it all and being so isolated, you tend to believe things you hear. And read. And the papers said things a bit differently.

The ‘kinder’ ones regarded it as an accident, of course…but you could still feel some of the flak…even all the way over here…you could practically feel journos and people exchange knowing glances.

‘It was Liverpool, after all…..they’re a bunch of hooligans…something like this was bound to happen again…..remember….. Heysel?’

This was before the true facts came out, of course…before we learnt of names like Duckenfield…and Murdoch…The stuff he printed was so, so horrible.

And yet, few of us here said anything.

We continued to look down at the floor.

It was so hard to read it, but yet, was it true?

Could it really be…our fault?

It was just so sapping…I didn’t want to think about it, but how could I not?

Lots of Mancs over here said the same thing; some were decent about it of course; and recognised it for the horrible thing that it was…but most toed the same line as the papers….HEYSEL.

I got some phone calls..No texts of course..I hadn’t a mobile phone, and no Internet. But some people did call. Some of them who were less stupid guiltily realized that had the Scum not lost earlier, that could have been their people in there.

Speaking of Heysel, my main memories of that is looking at a slightly foggy pitch in Belgium and a bunch of misshapen shapes moving around in the stands. Again, very few of the matches were shown here.

But not this time, this was in your face.

And this time, even then I knew….this was going to change us forever…it was hard to be interested in football then.

And yet, how could we not try to support the team?

The cheers may have been hollow, but they were still there.

I don’t think anyone realised that the next couple of years were going to be as tough as they were, but I think Hillsborough was something of an indicator of things to come.

It probably broke Dalglish, and who could blame him.

We turned to Souey, who gave it a go..but well, we know how that turned out.

When the greatest thing I can remember from the 90’s is an FA Cup in 1992 and the Armani incident, well…

It was in 1992 actually then that it sunk in that we were in trouble, we’d already bought Saunders for 2.75 million, and I didn’t have very high hopes for him..I thought he’d flattered to deceive at Derby, and that we got him because we were so desperate to regain what we’d lost…but it was a bit difficult to actually perceive what we’d lost…things just ‘felt’ different..

I remember watching that game (the final I mean) and hearing Martin Tyler praise us and say that this was ‘vintage’ Liverpool.

‘Vintage’?

Doesn’t that mean like ‘old’ or something?

Was he saying that we weren’t any good anymore?

When did that happen?

But it did, I guess.

Anyway, back to Hillsborough.

I think most of our memories here were of the flowers on the pitch at Anfield…that’s my most vivid memory…it was just so white..so white…with flecks of red and pink..it was just so beautiful..how could the pitch be so beautiful?....DONT THEY KNOW WHAT HAPPENED?

Then the songs…..We didn’t get much of it on TV, but we did get YNWA..

I think I CAN speak for every Red alive when I say the perception of that song changed forever after that date..


That’s one picture that’s been seared in my mind forever…that and the ‘Ferry across the Mersey’…They didn’t show many of the tributes on TV or the stuff in the papers; so we just had to stew.

Maybe that was the starting of our catharsis..

Sorry if this post seems a little stupid, guess that’s what happens with time.

After all this time, I keep putting it out of my mind..Again because I think it’ll go away,maybe…I’d even forgotten that it was in 1989, until Pete reminded me that it wasn’t in 1990.

The only time I let myself think about it is in April.

Though that isn’t really true.

If you study English common law, you can’t help but be exposed to Hillsborough…the most poignant case of course being Tony Bland…who was the 96th victim…the very last..he was the subject of a landmark case in the Court of Appeal.

Like I wanted to keep being reminded of Hillsborough. I DON'T WANT TO KNOW, ALRIGHT?

YES, I KNOW 96 PEOPLE DIED. DO YOU THINK I CAN'T FUCKING COUNT?

In all honesty, I wanted to forget. Though the reasons for that aren’t very admirable.

It wasn’t just because of all the pain and suffering and loss; it was because I was so fed up of hearing those comments about why it happened. Maybe if we didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t hurt as much.

But something changed over the years, all these years of reading and finally seeing the interviews, I finally understand. Thank you, Internet...and in all honesty, thanks to the lads on here as well. It's always going to hurt, and whilst my pain is nothing compared to most on here...thanks for carrying some of it.

After all this, I finally understood what it meant to not walk alone; I finally understood why we had to fight so hard to never forget..Because the book isn’t closed; because somebody somehow will have to explain why so many people had to die....We rake up the wounds every year in April, not because we like the pain of loss...but because we seek the pain of justice.

Whether things were good or bad, it meant the same.

It was then that I knew we’d be OK.

We’ve had the worst times of any football team in England, probably Europe…maybe even the world..We’ve also had the best times.We’ll be ok…Even if Rafa never brings 19. (or number 6 apparently; but we’re not done for yet ; you fucking Chav bastards)

And after Hillsborough, we’ll never be done for.

Walk on.

[size=16pt]Written by Avmenon[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

I was 16 years old the year of Hillsborough. Coming up to my GCSEs, and having a lot of trouble in school and at home. I would leave home and move into a pal's bedsit that summer, before my disappointing results were published, and I before I began abortive career choices, that would eventually see me going to night classes and restart my life some years later.

My Grandma had died the year before. Of the four kids in our family, I had always been her blue-eyed boy. I was very like my Dad, her beloved son, and she had barely made a secret of her favouritism towards me- I was to inherit the family silver, a faux silver tea-set that had been given to a scottish relative, a minister, by his bible class in 1868. She had asked my parents to give me his name. Its upstairs, in the display cabinet that I stared at every time I visited my Grandma . My son has that name too. There was no sibling rivalry on this issue, as I remember, it was just the way it was. When she died, it was kind of surreal. A few trips to a ward that smelled of death, watching her pray to her God not for recovery, but an end, as someone who had lost her wits periodically wailed, banshee-like from somewhere in the room. "Could someone please make that woman quiet", my Grandma mumbled every time the screech went up. As we were leaving that evening, I leaned over to kiss her, and she whispered into my ear, "I'm going now", or words to that effect. I think she said that. When the phone call came the next morning, and I saw my Dad cry the only tears I ever have seen him cry, I didn't. I watched the telly, played my music, did anything but feel. I was sad, but I felt like a witness to events rather than a participant.

About five years later, I was with my then girlfriend. We were watching a film or something, and chatting, and suddenly I felt this powerful feeling coming over me, as I thought about my Grandma, and felt her with me, and missed her so powerfully that I started crying uncontrollably. I don't know where it came from. I've only properly cried on one occasion since with that sobbing intensity.

The reason I'm boring you with this is because it is analogous with my experience of Hillsborough, and my memories of that time remain bundled together. As a 16 year old red I felt involved with what was going on, but as a witness, and I suppose, thankfully, not a participant. I watched those images on the telly, on the day itself, the funerals, Anfield filled with flowers, and knew this was changing everything for people- the people with kin who were dead, dying. It has taken me much longer to process the event and I still am. Unlike with my Grandma, there has been no single powerful moment, but an accretion of reading about the events in the years from then until now. I'm still learning, and my emotional response to Hillsborough has grown over the years rather than lessened. I feel it's the responsibility of reds to learn about it, to know what happened that day, and how people conspired to besmirch the dead and the innocent who were supporting their team that day. I said above that I have only truly cried twice as an adult, but I have had tears, and some of those have come when reading about people's experiences at Hillsborough. I got to grieve for my Grandma, and bring her back into my memories, for her to be a positive in my life. She was an old woman who I loved very much. God help those still racked by the pain of burying their kids, brothers, Dad's and husbands. I wonder how many have truly found consolation?

God bless them all. YNWA

[size=16pt]Written by Doctor Mac[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

When I was asked to contribute to a thread about the 20th anniversary, my immediate reaction was that many other more eloquent scribes have said most of what I have to say or recount what I saw that day.

I've been through the full range of emotions this week and the tears have flowed - anger, frustration and despair. I sat back and thought about what happened that day and realised I've never really discussed it, in its entirety with anyone.

So maybe, by telling this I may reach a personal nadir and be able to move on a little bit further than I already have.

My story started in April 88. As the song goes, we've never seen a side so great. A team that was perfect in any way, bulldozed its way to the league and met Forest at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi on 9th April. The game was fantastic, beany hats, Wembley songs and of course the Holy Trinity of Barnes, Beardsley and Aldridge. Just like Rome in 84, the seeds of April 15th 1989 were there in 88.

Hillsborough is a ground surrounded by tight terraced streets, no more so than around the Leppings Lane end. There was palpable excitement before the 88 semi final but there was tension as well. The police were not good natured, but no more so than any other set of coppers where there were hordes of away fans. There were thousands of us being bullied around, like any other week, at any other football ground. But this time we were lucky. One year later we would not be so.

A few weeks later, I attended the game 5-1 defeat of Wednesday just before we went to Wembley to defeat Wimbledon. Again before the game the atmosphere before the game was tense as police on horseback pushed us off the road towards the already cramped turnstile areas. People were in fear and some were getting anxious as the crush intensified. Again we were lucky...

The following year, what no fan dreamed should or would happen, did happen.

I remember the phone call the day before the semi final. "My brother can't go mate, you've got first dibs on the ticket". There was never a second dibs in those days. I never bothered telling my family where I was going, they knew that I'd be wherever Liverpool were playing.

My mate picked me up at about 9.30am. A beautiful spring morning in his not so beautiful, cream coloured 950cc Fiesta, and off we set. M3, M25 & M1. It was a well practiced route by now. The noise of the engine is still clear in my mind for some reason. Like a manic lawn mower.

We got to the vicinity of Hillsborough by about 2pm. Out came a couple of tinnies, I wasn't a massive lager fan as I was only a 19 yr old young buck who preferred cider! And they were warm but they were finished as we stood next to the car. We headed towards the ground. The sights were the same but the there was a similar anxiety to previous Hillsborough matches as there was the usual bottleneck outside the turnstiles. The police were their usual helpful self. "Get the fuck off the road you lot" was their helpful advice. Thanks lads, straight into the bottleneck.

It was tighter than previous games and kick off was approaching, you could see people looking worried. Worried they miss the start and worried that this crush was worse than usual. Then it happened. Relief, I saw out of the corner of my eye a stream of fellow Reds heading towards an open gate.

Dual relief, one we would see the whole of the game, two we were out of the crush. Little did we know...

As we headed in, I hung back to let my mate catch up. From previous experience we knew to head towards the dark tunnel leading on to the terraces and we did. Just as the game kicked off.

My god it was tight in there, we both knew from bitter experience on the Kop not to get a barrier in front of us. And we maneuovered so that one was behind us. Someone hit the bar (we later found out it was Beardo) and the terrace moved forward as one - as it always did in such situations, but this time instead of moving back we stayed where we were.

It was getting tighter and tighter and me, in my Kappa puffa jacket, was getting hot, sweaty and smelly. This was not the same. The look on people's faces around us said the same. As time went on, the true seriousness of this was becoming clear, there were anxious Scouse voices all around us. Parents trying to protect their kids, boyfriends protecting their ladies but to no avail, the crush was not lessing.

This could have gone on for minutes or hours. Time seemed to stand still for us. My mate was 4 yards away but he couldn't even turn to talk to me. After what seemed like an eternity things eased and we found ourselves sitting outside the ground. Was the game off? What had happened were questions being asked as the silence of the lack of communication was deafening.

It was then that people with transistor radios started relaying the news. "There's people dead" they said. No way was the initial response but clearly this gave way to further gruesome news.

My mate and I sat down on the kerb contemplating what was going on. We sat for ages. Young lads were walking up and down frantically asking people if they had seen their kid brother / cousin / Dad. One lad was so frantic we sat him down and gave him a cigarette to try and calm him. All he could say was "Me ma's gonna kill me, she didn't want me bringing me little brother today".

When I think back now, that's image that stays with me. A young lad of 20 odd, shaking with panic over his little brother. I know not whether his brother lived or died. In fact I almost selfishly don't want to know but it haunts me to this day.

[size=16pt]Written Anonymously[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

This is a very hard piece for me to write.

Because I’m not sure that it’s my place to write anything about that day. I'm an outsider.

I’ve loved Liverpool Football Club since I can remember.

It’s been a constant throughout my life and practically the only thing that I took with me from childhood, through adolescence and on into adulthood. Outside of real-life stuff like Amy and the girls and paying the mortgage and parents and siblings and college funds, etc… there’s still nothing more important to me than that football club.

But I am an outsider.

Born and raised in Dublin, I’m a fan by choice, not by birth (though Dad did put an LFC bobble hat on me when I was 20 minutes old…). So although my passion for the team, knowledge of it’s history and ridiculous photographic memory of many goals and passes and saves over the years probably rivals that of many locals, I know it’s just not the same as being one of them. It couldn’t be.

When I talk of Anfield, I’ve been there twenty five times, or so. Not too shabby for somebody from a different country, if I do say so myself!

But these Liverpool folks… They’ve been there 25 times a season. For 25 seasons.

I’ve watched the biggest of matches on television, living and dying with every kick, like so many others. But they’ve been at those matches. They've seen them all.

They’ve seen it all. They’ve lived it all.

The good times. The bad times. And the worst of times.

That day.

They lived that day.

And the days and weeks and months and years that followed.

I didn’t. Not like they did. Nothing like they did.

There’s nothing that I could write about how I remember that day, or how it affected me, or how it changed me, that compares to the stories of those poor people who lived it. They lost brothers and sisters and fathers and sons. I didn’t.

They buried their loved ones. I sent my scarf over with my Dad on a business trip to Liverpool, and he tied it to the Shankly Gates for me.

So, part of me doesn’t feel right, penning a piece about my perspective on that day.

But, although how that day affected me cannot compare to how it affected so many others, It did have a massive affect on me, even from across the Irish Sea. As it did many other outsiders.

And so I think that I will write something after all, on behalf of the thousands of people like me who do have a profound sense of loss and sadness due to the events of that day, but sometimes feel like we don’t really have the right to do so.

I’m sure that I can’t be the only one.



Sports Stadium, RTE’s version of Grandstand was normally terrible shite.

So, for years, I’d turn off the tele after the GAA segment, and spend Saturday's afternoon upstairs, in my bedroom, straining to hear Radio Merseyside broadcasting very weakly through my crappy little radio. Every other week, they carried live second half commentary on the LFC game. Though fuzzy, it was great.

And how I wished that I lived in Liverpool, so that I wasn’t cursed with RTE and faint, fuzzy radio signals. I’d have been at the games, if I had lived in Liverpool.

But then RTE decided to purchase the rights to live English football most weekends. And with Liverpool ruling the roost at the time, we were often shown. Suddenly, Saturdays were perfect. I had my Gaelic match in the mid-morning, then home to watch football.

Often Liverpool . Usually winning.

And so it was on April 15th, 1989.




I had just gotten home in time for the kickoff. Literally, they were starting as I came through the front door (Mam had it open), and on into the sitting room and the match (Mam had it already turned on, waiting for me).

It was a gorgeous afternoon, and we were looking strong for the double again. Beardo hit the crossbar within the first few minutes. Actually, he half broke it, if memory serves. We were gonna batter them, and it was gonna be a good day…

Then the commentator says something like “It looks likes there’s some crowd trouble behind Grobbelaar’s goalâ€. Oh no. C’mon lads, we don’t need that. Brucie seems to be looking into the crowd. Then he was talking to the policemen down there, it looks like…

But he takes the goal kick anyway. It couldn’t have been too bad. Play goes on.

Briefly.

The referee stops the play a moment or two later. Initially, all cameras are on the pitch and the players. They’re all looking down towards Brucie’s goal. They seem to be walking off the pitch. Yep, the referee is definitely signaling that he wants them to go off… What’s happening?

Now, the first people are on the pitch. They come down from that end, out onto the field, over the barriers. The commentator is saying something about it now appearing to be over-crowding, not crowd trouble after all. Thank goodness for that. But he’s also saying that it’s yet to be determined if the game will be restarted.

What? How bad could this over-crowding be?

Still the people come out. More and more of them. The cameras stay on that end of the field, and it seems like there’s hundreds of them out there. There’s Kenny, standing in the tunnel, looking down there too… The commentator says that there are now questions about whether or not the game will be restarted at all today.

What? What’s going on? This is the FA Cup semi-final. Of course it will be played. How could it not?

The commentator tells us that, although he’s hearing that the police are discussing a problem with overcrowding at the Liverpool end of the ground, there are no serious injuries. Thank goodness. And until it’s determined whether or not the game is restarted, we’re going back to the studio.

Bugger. I was really looking forward to this. Still… At least there are no injuries. That’s good.



I give Robbie McCann and a few of the lads up the back a shout. We’re all LFC fans, and had all been tuned in to the game. So now we’re all simultaneously looking for something to do. Naturally, within a few minutes, there’s a kickabout under way up on the green. Robbie was Digger, of course. I was Ronnie Whelan, as always.

We played for five minutes.

Then Rob’s dad, Uncle Jim (your Dad’s mate type of uncle, not your Dad’s brother type) comes up the hill, towards the green and his house…

“Hello lads. Did you hear about the game?â€
“Yes. Over-crowdingâ€.
“Terrible isn’t it? 14 deadâ€.
“Dead? No, I was talking about the Liverpool gameâ€
“Yes, there are people dead at the game… A huge crushâ€.
“But the commentator said that there were no serious injuries…â€
“It’s gotten much worse – I was watching it down the road… There are people deadâ€.

I started to run home, unable to comprehend what Uncle Jim had just told us. People are dead? Couldn’t be. It was just a bloody football match. How could people be dead?




I get home in about 10 seconds flat. Mam saw me coming down the hill, and she was waiting for me at the door. “Oh love, it’s awful…†There are tears in her eyes. Straight into the sitting room, where the tele is still on.

It’s like something out of a D-Day film: People everywhere, milling around, frantically running to and fro.. Men. Boys. Women. Girls. Some of them seem to be carrying stretchers as they run. Where did they get stretchers? Jesus, they’re not stretchers, they’re advertising hoardings…

People are sprinting everywhere, with these boards. Some have people on them, heading away from the crush, some are empty, headed towards the crush. Some people are simply sprinting up and down, over and back, grabbing new hoardings, bringing them to the disaster area, dropping them for others to use, and going back to get some more.

There are ambulances on the pitch. A couple of them, I think. Ambulances. On a football pitch? What the hell..?

Some fans seem to be down close to the Forest end, yelling at their fans. Pointing. Screaming. What’s going on there? There couldn’t be anybody looking for a ruck in all of this, surely? No, of course not… They’re asking the Forest fans to get out onto the pitch and help them.

Police here and there, but they’re not really doing anything, from what I can see. People are talking to them, yelling at them, gesticulating wildly, but there doesn’t seem to be much response.

By now the pens behind the goal are mostly empty. But there are bodies lying on the field… Lots of them. Some folks are giving some of them mouth-to-mouth. Others are just sitting down beside them, talking to them, comforting them, helping them get up. Begging them to get up.

Some fans are sitting down, all alone. Dazed. Numb. Crying.

It’s bedlam.

Ambulances are coming and going on the field. I cannot get past that. There are ambulances on a bloody football pitch. This was just a game of football. What the f#$! happened? People cannot be dead… It’s just a football match.

But all the while, driving it home like a sledgehammer, the commentator is telling us that the latest unconfirmed number of fatalities is 18. Then 20.

The cameras pans to a small group of people, kneeling. There’s a young man, lying on the ground in the middle of them. He’s not moving. There’s a medic, giving him mouth-to-mouth. His mate is standing over the medic, watching, fidgeting… For what seems like hours, there’s nothing. No movement. Christ almighty – I’m watching this lad die, live on television.

I feel sick. I think it was about then that I realized that I was crying. C’mon son, get up. Just get up.

Then the lad on the ground twitches a little. He seems to be coming to… His mate is up, jumping, pumping his fist, celebrating like we’ve won the double. So am I. Relief surges through my body. I’m happy like it’s my own mate. I’m still crying but, at least for now, it’s with relief. Thank God.

But the lad’s movement doesn’t last.

The medic’s back down to him, blowing and pumping his chest. His mate sinks to his knees beside the two. I can feel the pain of that boy coming off the screen. It’s palpable. It fills my front room.

He’s watching his friend die.

At a football match.

I can’t look anymore. Mercifully, the camera leaves that scene. Not that there’s any kind of respite anywhere else on the pitch… But with the cameras no longer on those particular folks, I can allow myself to believe that the lad on the ground is going to be ok. It may be a slim hope, but I’m clinging to it.

(I learned the next day that the poor lad on the ground had indeed passed away on the field. And the bloke watching him wasn’t his mate. It was his brother)

And now it’s time for the regular news. For seconds, the scenes leave the screen. But naturally, the news leads with the events at the game. There’s no escape from it.

And all the while, the number of dead rises.

At a bloody football match.



I’m not sure at what point I left the front room and the tele.

Mam made dinner around the usual time. Egg and beans and chips. My favourite. Looking back now, I think she did that on purpose – She’s great, my Mam.

But I couldn’t look at it. I remember feeling sick just contemplating eating. My brothers and sisters would have been home for most of this too, but I can’t remember them specifically. I think they were at the table when I asked to be excused. I think I remember Rory (aged 7) asking Mam why I was crying.

I’ve no idea what she told him.




Dad was home form work by now and he wouldn’t let me watch anymore for a while. He wanted me to give myself a break from it… I think he made me go for a walk. I didn’t want to, but I went.

I think that my body was on auto-pilot, as my head was useless to it. I remember just arriving outside the local church, with no recollection of actually getting there. It might have taken me 10 minutes. Or maybe an hour. I went inside, as mass was finishing up, and said prayers for all the people and all their families.

I left at about the same time everybody who’d actually been for the mass left.

Again on auto-pilot, I waited outside the church, in case friends were there too. They were. Those who knew me well were hugging me, asking if I was ok… I think with one or two of the closest of them I was actually in tears again. Andrew. Gloria, maybe. Those who didn’t really know me, but knew I was a huge Reds fan were asking me for latest news.

I can’t remember what I said to any of them.

Other than being aware that the death toll just kept climbing with each new report, my only other memory of that night is of being home at some point later that night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

Unable to get the images out of my mind. Unable to fathom what had happened today.

All those people had gone to watch a football match. It was supposed to be about Liverpool getting to the FA Cup final again.

That’s what today was supposed to have been about.

It was just a football match.




In the days and weeks after that Saturday, I found it hard to do anything but think about it.

It probably took me about two weeks to get my appetite back properly. Nothing held my interest for very long. I couldn’t study for my leaving cert, which was rapidly approaching. Nothing had ever affected me like this before.

Family, friends, even teachers knew it had hit me hard, and were checking in with me regularly… Half decent at art, I designed a little personal tribute to the dead Reds that I drew on each table that I sat at in school, from then until the end of the year – A headstone, with a few words “etched†into it: “RIP The Dead Reds. We will miss you, Shanks will welcome you. YNWAâ€.

Eventually, about two weeks later or so, one of the my teachers stopped me in the corridor, told me that he knew it was me, that he understood, but that I had to stop, because the school’s janitor was “going mental†to fnd out who was “ruining all the tables in the schoolâ€. I did tone it down after that.
Dad had an overnight business trip to Liverpool a few weeks after the day. He promised me that he’d get to Anfield on that one night he was in town, and tie my scarf to the Shankly Gates for me. I wrote my little message on the scarf, and off he went. It did make me feel better, knowing that if the families of the dead were able to take any consolation from the tributes that had flooded in, that I’d now contributed. Thanks Dad.




As time passed, it did get easier. My exams were coming, so I did have to force myself to get back to reality. I couldn’t afford not to.

I remember believing completely that LFC should continue to play in that season’s remaining matches, whilst the debate was raging and the decision was yet to be made. It was what they would have wanted, I thought. It was why they were at the game, after all. It’s what I would have wanted, had it been me, I thought.

And I believed it right up until the first game back, weeks later kicked off. And the second it did, I realized that I’d changed my mind… There could have been no bigger tribute to those who were lost than to not play again that season. This was just football. It could wait. Those people had to be remembered forever. And although I knew that they would be anyway, I thought then (and still do) that abandoning the rest of that season would have stood out even more than playing on for them.

But I understood why Liverpool FC made that decision. And I have no issue with it. Nor any other decision they made at the time. I think the manner in which the club handled every aspect of the tragedy was exemplary and makes me even prouder of the fact that I love this club.

I’m also very, very aware that I did not have the right to have an issue with anyway, even if I did have an issue with anything that they had done.

It wasn’t my place to have an issue with anything that Liverpool Football Club did over that time frame.

I’m an outsider.

I didn’t lose anybody.

The people of Liverpool did.

While we looked on helplessly, they lived the pain that we watched.




I mentioned earlier that I wasn’t sure whether or not to write this piece. Now I’m nearly finished it, I’m still not sure about it…

I hope that my memories and descriptions don’t come across as self-indulgent. I don’t pretend to understand the feelings, the grief, the loss of those directly affected. I pray that nobody who did lose somebody would be offended by anything I’ve written. That would keep me awake at night.

I know that nobody but Liverpudlians could possibly understand it fully.

But we outsiders felt it too.

Personally, it’s the point in time that I realized that I was becoming an adult.

I was barely 13 when Hysel happened. At the time, I was obsessed with Liverpool and I was more upset about losing the European Cup final than about the tragedy that occurred. I wish that wasn’t the truth, but it is. To this day I am ashamed to admit that.

Hillsborough changed that. I was 17, and starting to understand life a little bit…

I felt it this time.

People died. At a football match.

I hurt for the people who had died. For those who had survived. And especially for those who had lost their loved ones… How could a parent or a brother or sister get past this? Your son or brother or father goes to a football match and never comes home. How could you move on from that? Now that I have daughters of my own, I don’t think that I could.

The youngest victim, the ten-year-old lad, really got to me. That was roughly how old Rory was at that time. If I’d been born in Liverpool, I’d have been a season ticket holder by then. And I’d have tried to have gotten tickets for that match. And I’d probably have brought Rory, if I’d gotten them. Hell, I was already bringing him to Hill 16 for all of the Dublin matches, and he loved it.

That could have been us. That could have been Rory.

And I think that’s what makes us outsiders feel connected to it too, even if only slightly. It could have been us…
LFC is like an extended family for so many, around the world. And under different circumstances, any one of us could have been on those terraces. Or any one of us could have gotten that heartbreaking phone call.

And so that’s why I did write this in the end.

Because it could have been any one of us.

Because many, many more than those who actually lost people on April 15th 1989 were affected by what they saw that day. And if it had have been me, I think I would have found a little comfort in the wishes and prayers of strangers who felt that day too.

The day 96 people went to watch their beloved Reds play a football match.

And died there.

At a football match.




If anybody reading this piece did lose anybody that day, hopefully knowing that there are countless fellow LFC supporters everywhere who pray for you and grieve for your lost and wish they could do something, anything to help you, will give you some small comfort.

Know that there are many friends that you have never met out there, who wish they could have provided some support 20 years ago and keep you in their thoughts, always…

God bless you all.

Truly, you’ll never walk alone.

[size=16pt]Written by Whaddapie[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Re: HILLSBOROUGH REMEMBERED. (In Management under progress)

I would like to thank everyone who has contributed to this thread. I know it cant have been easy when i asked them, but almost everyone wanted to write something, and i totally understand and sympathise with those who felt unable to do so.

I have waited and as each piece has come in, i have read them and cried many times. It has been something that i wanted to do from a while ago, and something that i wanted to do right.

To the people of Liverpool. To the men and women who have known loss. To the 96. To their familys, friends and loved ones.
I hope we have done you proud.

Thanks.

On the 15th April in the year 1989, 96 Liverpool football fans lost their lives.

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

[size=18pt]RIP[/size]
[size=18pt]96[/size]

 

[SaintGeorge67]

Thank you Andy for your hard work on this. A lovely tribute.

 

[foureyes]

[quote author=SaintGeorge67 link=topic=32750.msg844453#msg844453 date=1239695866]
Thank you Andy for your hard work on this. A lovely tribute.
[/quote]

Ditto. Thank you, Andy. It couldn't have been easy, my friend.

 

[Judge Jules]

Absolutely magnificent. Without question the best thread I have ever read on a fansite. Respect to all of you, particularly to Oncy for so much hard and harrowing work.

And a message for the 96, looking on from wherever they are. You are still loved by your families and you're also still remembered by us. You are still part of this club and always will be. Whatever we achieve in the future will be achieved with you and for you.

YNWA

 

[Oncy]

Rememberence.

The Lying Rag shone bright that fateful day
When hopes and dreams were torn away
Incompetence; a lethal blunder
That echoed like a clap of thunder.

A fine day out, it should have been
Two sets of fans, one Wembley dream
A song rang out from a sea of red
“You’ll never walk aloneâ€, it said.

A tragic loss that stunned a nation
A hateful tabloid’s aberration
Stricken families, tattered and torn
Fell further victim to media scorn.

Ninety-six funerals, a chance to reflect
Players attend; pay their respects
Such fitting words to mourn the dead
“You’ll never walk aloneâ€, they said.

For police, perverse impunity
The bereaved, joined in unity
As families fight judicial tricks
Seeking justice for the ninety-six.

Such poignancy; faith in a team
That gave the fans a chance to dream
Should witness those dreams torn away
Yet still that faith remains today.

Those famous words that Shankly said
Must not be misinterpreted
When all is said and done, he’d claim
That actually, it’s just a game.

For all those loved ones, been and gone
Your legacy still lingers on
With every goal and every cheer
We feel your presence with us here.

So join us as we usher in
A new era, our time to win
And rest assured, through thick and thin
“You’ll never walk aloneâ€, we’ll sing.

[size=16pt]Written by Delinquent[/size]

 

[the_khl]

Haven't had time to read it all yet, but this is just a great thread.

Heartfelt, lovely and thoroughly respectful tribute.

Brilliant work Andy. And everyone who's been contributing.

 

[mark1975]

Lovely messages, good work Oncy and everyone else for their additions.

Oncy I know you asked me did I want to post something, I just couldn't think of words to say, but I wanted to post something about that era in general.

84-89 is a spell in football that still gives me goosebumps for various reasons. Some of the best Liverpool players and teams to grace the game, marred by some of the worst tragedies in the history of the game, the likes of which I hope is never seen again.

One thing that really sticks in my mind is the Milk Cup draw between Liverpool and Everton in '84, and the photo of both teams, together as one at the end of the game. There was friendly rivalry, but we were Merseyside, as was sung from the terraces on that day. It was never more apt than in the aftermath of that fateful day, 15th April 1989 when Liverpudlians and Evertonian's lost friends and relatives at a football match, and we came together as one. That kind of community spirit and the sheer humanity shown all over the World in response to the events (even today) is a real triumph in the face of such an horrific event, and a true testament to our club, our fanbase and our wonderful city.

I can't really add much to what's already been said, there are far too many people on here who have expressed it so much more eloquently, but I just want to say the memories of the 96 will never be forgotten and the fight for justice will continue, such is the determination and spirit of this City and those effected by Hillsborough.

God bless the 96.

YNWA

 

[LadyRed]

I doubt any poster on here is able to read through that thread with a dry eye, thank you for putting that together Oncy.

 

[gene hughes]

Well done Oncy.

 

[manwithnoname]

Respect

 

[Niall K]

Well done to all who contributed.

 

[Oncy]

That day,That fateful day.Its took me 20 years now to finally put something in print.Tears are dripping on the keyboard now as I try and post what Happened to me that day,That day when people in authority let me down,Let us all down and most of all the 96 who never came home.

Jesus this is harder to write than I expected. Im 6ft 3,Born and bred Scouser and nothing ever scares me,I never cry,Never,But the build up to April the 15th 2009 is making me cry more than Ive ever done.
Im just on edge,I ask myself many times over the last few weeks,
"Why did I come home?

"Why didnt I go down that Tunnel?

i look into my kids eyes,They ask me" Whats up Dad? I have to walk out the room,

They dont know what Im going through,No body does.

That night I got home from Hillsborough I got the best hug I ever got from anyone in the world,The most beautiful women in the world,Yes it was from my mother( whos sadly now not with us)
I held her so tight that night and she held me so tight.
We seemed to embrace for what seemed an eternity. I will take that hug to my grave as others werent as fortunate as me to get home and do this with their mothers.

That day I left the farmers pub in clubmoor with 11 other of my best mates,We left at the same times as Some of my mates were going to Villa park to watch Everton play in the other semi.
The banter was fantastic,None of the shit we see and hear today at Derby games, just good old fashioned Scouse humour.

The year before we had played Forest at Hillsborough,We were then as we were that fateful day in the leppings lane end. The game the year before could well be the day the tragedy struck. It was overcrowded that day. I always remember going in(88 game) and there was a steward standing my the tunnel of death who told us the pen behind the goal was full and could we make our way to the left which we all done. It was a great day,great win and wembley beckoned again.
Now to the 89 Day.
We went through the crush to get into the turnstile at about 2.35, we all got seperated from each other, I was with my elder brother who is only small, I was worried about him, I needed to have bothered because as fate had done its job. The 12 of us had remembered the semi the year before and all bypassed the tunnel of death to go the the pen on the left which we were all in the year before. It was fate we never went down that tunnel, there was no steward there that year telling us the pen was full and could we use other pens. Fate.

I ask myself "why did God spare me and my brother?" Our mother got to see her 2 sons again,I look at the parents of the Hicks daughers who both lost there lifes that day and ask that could have been my parents.

Justice has got to be done.
I will stop having nightmares then about this fateful day.
South yorkshire police have blood on their hands,

We know it and so the fuck do they.

There is so much I could go on about that day.
The silence in our mini bus heading back to Liverpool that night, It was unreal.

Seeing grown men crying like babies in our mini bus as the body count kept going as the radio commentary kept announcing.

One day I would love to do a proper story of that day. One day which has a happier ending which will read Justice for the 96 was finally done.

YNWA
MARK MC

[size=16pt]Written by Mark MC[/size]

 

[Oncy]

Liverpool FC has been a way of life for me since before I can remember. My bedroom wall had a new team poster each August with the players showing off trophies collected from the previous season and sun tans from their summer holidays. Colour prints of my favorites were on the wall too, the prime spot reserved for a certain Scottish striker who wore number seven.

Memories of childhood are filled with Kenny, Souey, Hansen, Rushie and Brucie. Figurine Panini football cards and the excitement of opening a packet and finding a Liverpool player, or the team photo or shiny club badge. Match of the day and the Sunday afternoon highlights show on ITV. Various versions of the Red home kit and away shirts in yellow and white. Hitachi and Crown Paints. The huge black and white print of Dalglish on the wall in Olympus Sports shop on Church St. Those May nights when we went out into our road to join our neighbours in celebration of another European Cup win and having an impromptu game of footie with my friends and their dads decked out in red shirts, scarves and hats. The sight of front windows displaying banners during the lead up to a League Cup, F.A Cup or European Cup final. My Dad taking me to home games against lesser teams so he could lift me up to sit on one of the bars in the Kop for a good view. Dedications for my Birthdays read out by George Sephton at half time.

I remember the pain as a teenager when that shithead, Charlie Nicholas, ruined Rushie's record of Liverpool never losing a game when he scored in the Milk Cup final. The pain of the 1988 Cup final against Wimbledon when that bastard referee, Brian Hill, disallowed Beardsley's early goal which would have opened the floodgates. I punched our garden shed after that game. I also remember delaying finishing with a girl who lived in Bagnall St near the Salisbury pub in Anfield until the Title was secured because I thought it might be bad luck to do so beforehand.

I was also privileged to watch the magnificent team assembled by Kenny play such a breath taking brand of football. Barnes' slalom through QPR's defence and his Brazilian like free kicks. Beardsley's quick feet and shimmying hips. Aldridge's goal scoring. During pre season we climbed on the power station at Melwood and watched the five a side games and were mesmerized by Barnes' skill.

I remember the growing excitement as Liverpool began their assault on the FA cup, looking to erase the memory of the Wimbledon final from the previous season. Carlisle, Millwall and Hull were beaten and then Brentford were swept aside 4-0 at Anfield in the quarter final. And then to Hillsborough.

It was a beautiful early spring day, The Lying Rag was shining and we were off to watch out team in the FA Cup semi final. A perfect day. David Mather was driving us in his dark green Morris Marina and my friends Mark and Woodsy and another lad called Benno made up our group. We were in high spirits during the journey and had scarves flying from the back windows. Reds in other cars waved as we made our way to Yorkshire.

Mather parked the car in a side street and we went to the chippy and had a quick pint in a pub on the way to the stadium. We went through the turn stiles and took up our positions on the Leppings Lane end when it was practically empty. Some lads were sun bathing lying on the steps closer to the blue fencing. Marvin Gaye sang "Heard it through the grapevine" over the loud speaker. The terraced end was full to capacity as the game kicked off.

I couldn't see much of the play because it was getting rather uncomfortable and I was turned to the side and wasn't able to turn back to face the pitch. Apparently Peter Beardsley hit the bar. I lost sight of Mark and Woodsy but spotted Mather further back, away from where it was really packed. Lucky bastard, I remember thinking.

At this stage I had forgotten about the game and realized that something was seriously wrong. I also knew that I was in deep trouble. I was standing slanted to the side, my laces had become undone and I had someone's elbow pushing in my face. Lads were panicking all around. I think I remember seeing Mather somewhere near. I couldn't exhale fully and there was enormous pressure on my chest. I couldn't breathe properly but knew that I had to hold on. I had to survive for my Mum, Dad and big Brother. I suddenly became calm and more relaxed and after what seemed an age the crush at last began to ease.

I saw some lads on the upper tier pulling Mark out of the crush. I looked around and didn't spot Woodsy. And I couldn't see Mather.

After a while I made my way back through the tunnel and realized that I'd lost my match program. There was a lad on a stretcher and his face was purple. The sound of ambulances was constant, a sound that haunts me to this day. More lads on stretchers who had not made it. I walked into a butchers shop and asked if I could call home and was immediately offered the telephone. I let my Mum and Dad know that I'm safe but that others had died. I am truly thankful that they had not known this at the time.

I walked back to the Morris Marina and found it locked and empty. I knocked on a door to get paper and pen and wrote a note telling the others that I'm okay and will be going back to look for them. I wandered around for several hours looking for my friends. I spotted Benno getting on a coach to go home. He told me that Mark and Woodsy are okay but he hadn't seen Mather.

Sometime later I bumped into Mark and Woodsy and they both gave me a bear hug. They thought that I hadn't made it. We walked back to the car and checked my note for additions. There were none. We were guided to a community centre where local volunteers were offering help and support. Peter and Jeannete drove us to the Marina twice but my note remained untouched. Where on earth was Mather? Later that evening we boarded a bus which took us back to Hillsborough where there were volunteers and priests trying to help. We had a cup of soup each. I was starving. I walked around and climbed some steps and looked onto the pitch. Advertisement hoardings were scattered barriers ripped down. It looked like a storm had blown through and wrecked the place. A priest asked who we were looking for and we described Mather. He left us for five or ten minutes and then returned to gather us in a huddle. He told us that he believed our friend was in the gymnasium, a facility that was being used as a temporary morgue. He was so terribly sorry. My soup cup slipped through my fingers and splattered all over the floor. Mark and Woodsy were hysterical. I was numb and shaking uncontrollably.

Mather needed to be identified. Mark and Woodsy said they couldn't do it.

Peter and Jeanette did their best to offer comfort and support and took us home for something to eat and to sleep. The Embassy World Snooker Championships had started that same day, also in Sheffield. The next morning we set off for home in Peter's Saab instead of the green Marina which was still parked where we left it the previous morning with my note that would never be added to. Guilt was overwhelming when we met Mather's mum at Anfield that afternoon. She asked us to carry his coffin along with his brother. We met Kenny in the players' lounge and he gave me a hug. I was overwhelmed and in shock at what I'd endured and witnessed

Mark, Woodsy and I went to Old Trafford for the replay and roared the team on as they ripped into Forest from the first whistle. It was a therapeutic experience. We also went to Wembly to see the Reds lift the Cup for those who had died.

Adrenaline had got me through the previous weeks but as Michael Thomas scored to snatch the Title away from us I sank down on the floor of the Kop. I had nothing left and didn't want to get up. My friends half carried me back to the car.

Since the tragedy I've been heartbroken at Kenny's leaving of Liverpool and disgusted by the shower of shite wearing the Red shirt when Jeremy Goss scored the last goal in front of the standing Kop, for Norwich. I've been cheered by Houllier's Treble winning team and was ecstatic when we won the European Cup again in Istanbul. I was filled with pride as I watched us destroy Man United a few weeks ago as Torres and Gerrard terrorized supposedly the country's best defender. I hope we can finish top next month and deliver the ultimate tribute to the Reds who didn't make it home twenty years ago.

[size=16pt]Written by Wilko7[/size]