You’ll never walk alone

 

When Liverpool FC made the Champions League Final in 2018 – still the European Cup for those of a certain vintage, like most fans I waited anxiously for the May 26 kick-off in Kiev. But as I anticipated that match, I was transported back in time rather than forward.

 

 

My father died four days after Liverpool won the Cup in 2005. The “Miracle in Istanbul” has, for me, always been tinged by this poignant juxtaposition. 

And yet it’s an expectedly uplifting and funny story too. 

My father was in the advanced stages of leukaemia and fading in and out of a coma while watching the final then. As most know, Liverpool were behind 3-0 at half-time, but when he came out of his coma, the score was tied 3-3. I had real trouble convincing him I hadn’t rigged the television. As the match went to penalties, he said "never mind the leukaemia, I'll die of a heart attack."

After they won the penalty shootout, we went for a valedictory 'march' around a genteel Canadian neighbourhood, replete with football scarves – looking for all the world like a crazed Steptoe and Son combo. Me - pushing him in the wheelchair. Him - happy perhaps for the last time. It was his way of saying goodbye and as he talked about how proud he was of me - I listened, a lump in my throat.   

"Liverpool" was a code way of communicating between a son and a father from the North of England and of a generation not known for expressing too much emotion. It helped start many a conversation that otherwise would have gone unsaid.     

The night after he died, I had a splendid dream of both of us at Anfield high in the stands and all he said was "just listen." And there were 50,000 fans singing “you’ll never walk alone”. 

They’ve been back in the final once since that night in Kiev. On a horribly scarred Parisian evening in 2022. And once again, I was transported back to 2005.

My father died on a Sunday morning - I saw him Saturday afternoon with my oldest friend just before we went off to our high school's 150th anniversary party. 

Life moves on - but occasionally we are called to remember. My grandfather held a season’s ticket at Anfield from 1938-1978 (first thing he bought on returning to England after living in China for 18 years and then fleeing the Japanese in Shanghai). He left it in his will to the next-door neighbour! My son Liam has now taken up the mantle – so that’s 85 years of support. 

I will be glued to the television the next time they make the final. No doubt Liam will be watching as well, although he may be dreaming of getting back to his Xbox FIFA adventures. My thoughts will also be divided - between willing the Reds on and remembering a similar day, now 18 years ago.  

Wherever my father is, I hope he gets digital television. He'll be watching and smiling and remembering as well....

You never walk alone.