Book serialisation: Far Foreign Land, Chapter 15

Shankly. Why he made supporting Liverpool matter, which explains why we're in Istanbul. This was the first time I wrote about Hillsborough. It was painful. So much left out, more needed to be said

Smiles and joy and glee

ANDREA PIRLO IS UP next. To judge by his walk, he’s nervous. Dudek is calmer on the line, as if embarrassed by his previous antics.

Pirlo hits it to his left, the goalkeeper goes the right way and the ball has neither the power nor the direction to go in.

Djibril Cisse saunters into the spotlight. You can see from his extreme haircuts that he has a confidence that his ability probably does not warrant. But he has no fear and while the ball might end up among the Milan fans, he won’t lose his nerve on the run-up as so often happens in these situations.

He doesn’t. Two-nil. You can almost touch the cup…

* * *

‘Morning lovers.’ They both turned away, recalling the horror of accidental drunken contact misinterpreted.

‘Show us your ticket,’ Dave hit back.

‘Below the belt. But you know all about that, don’t you.’ Yes, the level of repartee was that sad.

Between the three of us, we had travelled 11,000 miles and taken 18 days just to get here. And the reason we came – or at least its physical manifestation – would take place within 12 hours. But first there was a commitment I wished I hadn’t made. A car was picking me up in 30 minutes to take part in a live Turkish television programme. Dave was coming along for the ride, the idea being to have a panel of fans from both sides. Al was hanging around to make contact with the rest of our mates.

I had intended to get a shirt washed and ironed to look vaguely respectable for the cameras. Drink and banter, as so often happens, got between good intentions and reality.

Wearing a polo shirt and having a week’s worth of stubble was not the greatest look for an apparent representative of the paper of record, but that was never part of my plan. If it was, I would have been comfortable in the press box for the match. Instead, the level of discomfort was acute. Facing the cameras was bad enough; the prospect of watching the game on television was really moving the sweat glands along.

People asked me why I never applied for press credentials or tried to climb on to the corporate junket bandwagon, but the reasons are simple. No matter how you become involved in football, whether or not it becomes your livelihood, it is crucial not to lose sight of the pure, simple truths that draw you to the game.

I was there as a fan and the press box is for people who are working. As for corporate hospitality, I’d rather be locked out of the ground or watching on television. It would compromise my sense of self to be part of that rarefied, privileged group rather than in the rough-and-tumble world of the footsoldier supporters.

Plus, no one offered me the opportunity, the bastards.

That morning, I was regretting the press box highmindedness and would have shared canapés and supped with a red devil to get into that bloody Ataturk stadium.

A rather tall, elegant girl at the television company seemed reluctant to believe that I was the man they expected. One of the production crew came to the rescue and took us into the green room where we tried to rehydrate. The other British journalist was Patrick Barclay, from the Sunday Telegraph. He breezed in – thank heavens – in a T-shirt and jeans. However, there was one difference: I looked scruffy and he looked the epitome of cool.

Our Italian counterparts stared at us askance. They had dressed for the occasion. The woman must have been expecting to go to a P2 Masonic lodge ladies’ night, while her male colleague was clearly off to become a ‘made man’ with one of the five families the minute the cameras stopped rolling.

Dave could hardly contain himself. ‘He’s a Corleone. You haven’t got a chance. He made his bones when you were dating cheerleaders. Did you see him shooting his cuffs?’

The host did more talking than his guests and then we were off, back to the hotel. The less time on camera the better, I felt. In the car, there was a text message: ‘S has a 100 euro ticket. U want it?’

Oh yes.

* * *

At the hotel, there was a crucial moment. A decision loomed: what to wear for the match? I took from my bag a one-off T-shirt made by Kevin, my cousin, a man of almost too many talents. It was white with a red rectangle running down the solar plexus. That oblong contains a picture of Bill Shankly holding his clenched fist high with a look of determination on his face.

It was more than 25 years since I had worn any sort of colours at a match. I put the T-shirt on. Tonight, it would be time to stand up and be counted.

* * *

Without Shankly, would we be in Istanbul? That question does not refer to the club he rebuilt after taking over as manager on December 1, 1959.

Nor is it meant to assess the teams he created. It is about the metaphysical effect that he had on the supporters, the sense of involvement, belief and love he fostered.

Ian St John, the man who scored the goal that brought the FA Cup back to Anfield for the first time in 1965, said: ‘For Bill Shankly, football was a moral issue rather than mere sport.’

Shankly communicated this to the supporters and made them believe the game was – is – about bigger matters.

He was a socialist who had an unerring faith in people, a man with exceptional powers of motivation and he made us understand that this football club was more than just a business. More than anyone, he made it a cultural symbol.

It was a stunning synthesis. Shankly was a natural demagogue who had found a constituency whose tastes tramlined perfectly with his vision. That he built a successful team very quickly was almost secondary; his appeal transcended the mere kicking of a ball.

The statue that stands outside the Kop shows him with his arms outstretched, taking the acclaim, fists clenched and has the legend ‘He made the people happy’ on its plinth.

Shankly did. He also charged the supporters with a fervour that went sometimes beyond the bounds of rationality and fed a belief that this game could become a vehicle for a people’s hopes and dreams; that success in football could become a weapon in the guerrilla warfare that a downtrodden and alienated section of society was constantly conducting in a world that ignored their interests and aspirations.

After the club got rid of him in an unseemly manner in 1974 – a compulsive resigner, he did it once too often and they jumped at the chance – he went to games at Anfield and Goodison for pleasure.

One night, coming out of an Everton home match – in the days when it was cheap, most football-mad youngsters went to both grounds in the city – I saw Shankly appear from the players’ entrance.

The crowd waiting for autographs milled around him and followed him down the road as he began the three-mile walk home. People asked questions and he answered them, his love of the game showing in his enthusiasm.

Over the journey, some dropped off, so that the group of about 80 was down to 20 or so by the time he reached home. At his gate – outside a humble semi in West Derby – he said: ‘I’d love to invite you in, boys, but I’d be in trouble with the missus…’ He pulled a henpecked face. Magnificent. It was a very long walk home, but worth it.

Shankly’s most famous axiom, however, has been used against Liverpool  supporters. ‘Football is not a matter of life and death,’ he is quoted as saying. ‘It’s much more important than that.’

After Heysel and Hillsborough, this statement has been used to illustrate Liverpool supporters’ loss of perspective when it comes to the sport. It is unfair. The comment originally came out of a press conference, when Shankly was devastated that his side had been beaten. ‘Come on Bill,’ a journalist asked. ‘It’s not a matter of life or death, is it?’

‘It’s much more serious than that,’ he shot back.

He may have been an Ayrshire miner but, like Scousers, he could not resist the easy joke.

Then, when he saw the effect that the comment had – people were appalled and amused in equal measure – he turned it into his party piece.

But do not be fooled. He knew what really mattered. And he is the guiding light for people like us, whose perception of what the game means diverges wildly from the beliefs of the men in the boardrooms.

And we know, more than most, exactly how important football is.

* * *

How much would defeat in Istanbul hurt? To be honest, quite a lot. But not that much.

At the end of the 1989 season, when Arsenal scored the last-minute goal at Anfield to snatch the title and the Double from Liverpool’s grasp, there was shock on the Kop. Then a voice spoke up somewhere behind where we stood.

‘Worse things happen,’ it said. ‘We know.’ And we laughed at the absurdity of being left distraught by defeat.

The eight of us who gathered at a cafe table near the New Mosque knew that. There was me, Dave and Big Al, Ian and Stephen, whose dad had been so horribly stabbed in Rome, Stevie, Pat and Tony, whose brother John had been beaten in Brussels for his pigeon Italian. Defeat by Milan would be disappointing and irritating. But it would be no nightmare.

We had all suffered real ones… Rome, Heysel, Hillsborough.

All of us had been at Hillsborough.

* * *

April 15, 1989 was such a lovely spring day. While waiting for our lift to Sheffield, my brother said that he hoped the traffic would not be so bad.

My response was: ‘What can possibly go wrong on a beautiful day like this?’

Tony was living in London but met two carloads of us at a pub. He had not been at Heysel when his brother was jumped by Scousers but he chuckled about the incident with the rest of us. No one would laugh at what happened to Tony at Hillsborough.

He was with me, the two of us lingering in the pub for a final drink while the rest of the party drifted down to the ground. We headed for the Leppings Lane at about 2.45.

When we got to the gates, the queues were backed up into the street. It was not a particularly bad crush though and, being experienced in crowds, we were able to surf the pushing and shoving and make our way to the front.

As we reached the turnstiles, the main, exit gate opened. We were surprised. In front of us was the tunnel that led to the central section of the terraces. People ran towards it.

I was in the stands, so I went off to the side. Tony went straight ahead. I next saw him 32 hours later. Life had changed considerably in that short time.

There was no hint of potential problems before the gate opened and let the crowds in shortly before kick-off. Even then, I went to my seat without any worries.

I emerged into the stand just as the teams came out. It was just a joy to be there. Nottingham Forest, in all white, and Liverpool, glorious in blood red ran onto a pitch that looked lush and perfect in the sunlight.

The first feelings of alarm occurred as I moved towards the goal-line heading for my seat. The Leppings Lane end comprised a number of separate pens. The subway that Tony had moved towards led to the central terrace, directly behind the goal. That area was too packed.

The wings of the terrace had large empty areas that should have been full of people. It did not take an expert to see that something had gone wrong.

This was a semi-final and many of the people present that day did not know the geography of the stadium. For plenty of fans in Hillsborough, this would be the only time in the season that they would watch Liverpool away from Anfield – unless, of course, the team reached the final.

Emerging from the turnstiles, the only apparent entrance to the terraces was the subway. Those who had been to the ground regularlyknew that a short walk left or right of the subway would bring you round and allow entry into the other sections behind the goal. Too few people that day were aware of this.

A single policeman stationed at that one visible entrance, directing people to the side, could have saved 96 lives.

We also did not know that at a semi-final between Tottenham Hotspur and Wolverhampton Wanderers in 1981 a dangerous crush had happened in the same place in similar circumstances.

By the time the game kicked off, there were clearly problems behind the goal. The police, fixated on potential hooliganism, did not act and actively pushed people back into danger when they attempted to climb out and onto the pitch.

When Peter Beardsley hit the bar at the Kop end after four minutes, it was the final straw. There were serious problems at the Leppings Lane.

Now I started to worry for my youngest brother. He had left us about 1.15 and we had reminded him to go to the side. A raised section to the goal’s left had the best views in the end and we had told him to go there.

Soon, the extent of the nightmare began to show itself. A man walked along the sidelines holding his elbow in his hand. The elbow made a right-angle; halfway up the forearm, there was another right-angle.

Within minutes a fat man was laid down on the pitch in front of us, with people pumping at his chest. So much was going on that I looked away for a minute. When I checked again, his huge belly was exposed because his red shirt had been pulled up to cover his face.

‘Christ, he’s dead,’ I exclaimed. It was involuntary, the product of shock.

Those around me, however, turned nasty. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ a man said. ‘No one is fucking dead.’ Others grumbled at me, too. I don’t blame them. It was difficult to believe that this was happening.

I tried to calm myself and then left the stand. I had completed a perfunctory course meant to be useful in medical crises. I thought I might be able to help.

Jogging around the corner, I came round to the subway. Everything was calm. A line of policemen stood there, as if to prevent people leaving, a few supporters milled around and some were even sunbathing by the wall. Jesus, I thought, this is no time to get a tan.

It was only after I passed them that I realised the sunbathers were dead.

Panicked, I turned to one of the policemen. I asked: ‘How many?’ He just let loose a heavy, racking sob. It was too much. I ran away from the ground as fast as I could.

Stopping at a phone, I called home and got my sister. That I was calling at this time was a big shock to her. Hearing the tone of my voice frightened her and she began to cry. She asked: ‘Is it bad?’ I said no.

But I’d made the call. That was enough.

Then I went to the pub where we were earlier. The landlady recognised me and did not throw me out. ‘How bad is it,’ she asked, because Grandstand was reporting casualties.

‘Worse than Heysel,’ I said.

‘How many was that?’

‘Thirty-nine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I saw more than that myself.’ I probably hadn’t but it felt like I had. I started to cry.

‘Your mates?’ She gestured to where we had been sitting.

‘Don’t know.’ Then she put four optics of whisky into a half-pint glass and gave it to me.

‘I should go back to the car,’ I said. She nodded.

* * *

When my brother ambled up to the car, I’d been sitting on the kerb for 40 minutes or so, wondering why the others had not arrived. Few people seemed to be leaving the stadium. The empty streets made me doubt what I’d seen.

Why wasn’t the ground cleared? It was as if the game was being played – except that there were no roars and groans to signify action.

In the distance, though, was the noise of sirens, constant and terrifying, building with every minute. And then, suddenly, the ground emptied.

My first instinct was to hit my brother but, just as at Heysel, there were many people in the same end who had no idea of the extent of the disaster. By the time we had regrouped and were ready to set off, there were arguments about the scale of what had happened. I even began to compose myself, hoping that perhaps only one or two were dead.

The journey home was horrific. Each update on the radio added more deaths to the tally. Shortly after we drove out of Sheffield, a bulletin said 12 people had died.

We were shocked into silence. The count went up as the minutes passed.

You could see the look of horror on the faces in the other cars. The line of traffic made me think that this is what an army in retreat must look like. Expressions of panic were everywhere. People jumped out of their vehicles at phone boxes and tried to call home and, finding the system overloaded and out of use, ran back to the cars with fright etchedon their faces. It was impossible to think or sit still – the energy of terror made it racking to sit squeezed into the back seat.

At home we went into a pub on Walton Road and began making phone calls. I phoned Big Al’s mother – he, too, had moved away for work – and reassured her that he was OK, we’d seen him after the match and he’d gone to get his train.

Robert, the big Ulsterman who had been with me at Heysel, stared at me, mouth agape. I asked him: ‘What’s wrong?’

‘When did you see Al? Before we got there?’

‘No, he came back to the car with you.’

‘No he didn’t.’

He was right. I started to shake.

‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘Have a drink.’

* * *

I had arranged to stay with Tony in London on the Sunday night after Hillsborough before flying into New York to visit my brother. I had booked two weeks’ holiday from a job working in an estate agents for an insurance company. I never went back.

When I got to his flat, Tony did not speak for an hour. Then he asked a question: ‘Have you ever felt someone’s ribs breaking under your feet?’

In the months afterwards, he started losing weight rapidly. Medical tests showed no clinical reasons for the condition. The doctor asked: ‘Have you had any major traumas lately.’ Tony could not think of any.

‘It didn’t occur to me,’ he said.

Back home, he relayed the conversation to his girlfriend, now his wife. She dragged him back to the surgery.

No trauma. While I was running away from Hillsborough, Tony’s elbow was stuck in a man’s throat and neither could move in the crush behind the goal.

‘I’m choking,’ the man said. Frantic, Tony tried to shift his arm. It was stuck. Then the man stopped complaining.

When the doctor found out the real reason for Tony’s rapid weight loss, he explained the matter in simple terms. He was Irish and not inclined to psychobabble. We call it the weeping willows,’ Tony remembers being told by the GP. ‘You can’t cry and this is how it comes out.

‘Shit. You’re weeping through your arse.’

It didn’t occur to most of us that we were having nervous breakdowns in the early 1990s, but we were. A lot of us screamed in the night and woke without memories.

Worse were the mornings when we could recall our nightmares.

Few of us went through what Tony experienced. Even fewer came away completely unscathed. There was much emotional baggage around that table in Istanbul and the bigger the game, the heavier it weighs.

Read Chapter 16: You’d better hurry up

Order Far Foreign Land here: Cost £10 UK, £15 Europe, £18 Rest Of World. All including postage

For those interested in the culture of Merseyside, try my non-football novel. Good Guys Lost, an epic of Liverpool life set from the 1960s to the 2010s