A bit of media whoring today, as I was put on the official website, under the feature, Reds Around the World.
My original script read like this:
Everyone in Liverpool is either born a red or a blue. It is a destiny chosen for them, and they carry their colour through their life, whether they stay in their city of birth or if they uproot. It is as natural as the family you are born into. It is obviously seen as the most natural in Liverpool, where it is the natural habitat of Liverpool F.C.’s support and rightly so. For a lot of people around the world, the fandom that fills in your life is closer than you might ever think. I was born in Malta, an island, some three hours and a half flight away from Liverpool. It was 1980, a year after from when the British troops had officially left the island after gaining independence, fifteen years earlier. Red or blue back then at home was more of a case of your political allegiance which was equally ferocious as the football divide back in Merseyside.
A lot of people who are impressed or probably more accurately bemused by my fanaticism on Liverpool, ask me when did you become a fan. I honestly don’t have an answer. I believe I was born a red. Some people expect me to say that I was won over the bright red shirts in one particular F.A. Cup final in the eighties, the decade of my childhood. Hand on hear though, it can never be the case, as back then in our humble home we only had a black and white television set. Still thinking about it, I do remember the 1989 Cup Final. Over here it used to be transmitted through an Italian channel called TMC, that thanks to the geographical proximity we used to get for free on our television sets through a poxy aerial on our roofs. Peter Frampton’s ‘Which Way the Wind Blows’ should have been the soundtrack to the match itself though rather than an Italian pundit getting beyond himself every now and then, as every now and then with a slight change in the direction of the wind or even worse an occasional gust of wind would seriously affect the picture offered to us. And I think that day in May might have been sunny in England, but it was surely windy back home. In the greater scheme of things it was only a hurdle through a marathon as eventually by the end of the match I was beyond myself with excitement and happiness. And then on Sunday I completed my celebrations by waking up as early as possible to get to the newsagents to get the paper and thus would be the proud owner of a few pictures of the reds celebrating the F.A. Cup victory, which once again, needless to say were still in black and white.
Since then a lot changed, cable television became the order of the day and local papers started printing in colour. My days in school and college changed into a job in banking, with the main perk being a salary that meant I could now afford the first trip to Anfield. It was a tour organised by our local supporters club, which by then I was only a member and later I served as a secretary amongst other posts. I was on the phone to put my name in the second I received the newsletter. I had a few sleepless nights thinking that if the club wouldn’t get the numbers I will only get my deposit back. But it was one of those induced fears that had no base at all, like when you lately see Steven Gerrard prepping up to take a penalty area. There are doubts but there is only one outcome, be it in the first or the ninetieth minute of the match. It was against Bradford when the Titi Camara mania was hitting full scale. Still, the thing that still sends shiver down my spine till this very day, nine years after is the green, green grass of Anfield. It was a Monday night game and the floodlights were shining on what Bill Shankly once called professional grass of Anfield but it was one sight to behold. Maybe am boring and next time I will tell you about how intriguing watching paint dry is but that was my baptism when entering Anfield for the first time. My fears of not actually making it into Anfield have now changed into being a bad omen for the side as Bradford went up. Once again my fears were unfounded as Titi Camara quickly made it 1-1, Jamie Redknapp scored from the spot and lately Vegard Heggem nailed the score 3-1.
The local supporters club that by fate have the premises a five minute drive away from home has by now became my second home. The Liverbird outside must have brought the attention of a few Liverpool fans holidaying in Malta, at least enough to at first make an apprehensive step in. The apprehension though soon changed into confident storytelling about the mighty reds as they feel at ease in the place with Bill Shankly looking all over them and a replica of the European Cup taking pride of the place amongst other innumerable memorabilia. Before we would be probably sitting there trying to make heads or tails of the situation through the buffered voice of Stephen Hunter. Now the match on the box is practically guaranteed. Phone numbers and emails are then swapped, tickets are promised and most importantly a friendship is forged through the lure of the mighty reds. I am proud to say that some of my best friends are actually from Liverpool and they are another main reason why I travel to Liverpool regularly.
Anfield was soon not enough though, and the away European trips become another annual fix, starting from Sofia, when apart from the 4-2 score-line, we all talk about the cold that our Mediterranean bodies could hardly take during the match. Coruna was next, and then Leverkusen. For Leverkusen though we stayed in Cologne the night before and one of my happiest anecdotes happened there. I was all in the mood singing along with fellow reds with one eye on the Chelsea v Barcelona match. At one particular moment I was making my way through a mass of bodies, when am struck by a familiar face. A face you know you know but can’t put your finger on where. It was actually the then Rafa’s assistant Pako Ayestran. As we crossed each other I asked him if am right to think that it’s him. He confirmed me but told me to keep it quiet. And then I see Rafa. I thought am daydreaming, and like Scousers do when somebody tells them to keep quiet, I rushed to tell a couple of mates that Rafa’s in the pub. I was believed as much as an email which informs you that you are the lucky winner of the lottery. This time though, the email was not spam but as hard as it is to fathom had arrived from a secure server. I had no camera on me to record such anecdote, but my word has been backed by every other red in the pub.
A year after, Big Ears came to our club in Malta. There I had it before our eyes, shining as ever, trying any move possible to look as if you’re nervously scratching your brow when really you just want to make contact with her, who is closely supervised by two big men in black, while posing for a picture with her.
This year I spent the first three months in Australia, and I realised more than ever what Liverpool F.C. means to me even though being born nowhere near Anfield. I managed to follow the reds almost every match, but watching it on your own at two in the morning, is nowhere like being with your mates, having a couple of drinks steaming off a long day or even a long week at work, with the reds being the real focal point, the one thing that bonds together. When I was at the Nou Camp the day before another great trip and experience I could not help but be intrigued by the ‘Mes Que un Club’ (More than a club) written through different colour seats. In the case of Liverpool F.C. what should be written to make this club justice? ‘More than a club, an institution with Scouse values at its heart that fascinates all kinds of people around the world’. But then again, neither the Centenary, nor the Main Stand are wide enough for that to be inserted.
My original script read like this:
Everyone in Liverpool is either born a red or a blue. It is a destiny chosen for them, and they carry their colour through their life, whether they stay in their city of birth or if they uproot. It is as natural as the family you are born into. It is obviously seen as the most natural in Liverpool, where it is the natural habitat of Liverpool F.C.’s support and rightly so. For a lot of people around the world, the fandom that fills in your life is closer than you might ever think. I was born in Malta, an island, some three hours and a half flight away from Liverpool. It was 1980, a year after from when the British troops had officially left the island after gaining independence, fifteen years earlier. Red or blue back then at home was more of a case of your political allegiance which was equally ferocious as the football divide back in Merseyside.
A lot of people who are impressed or probably more accurately bemused by my fanaticism on Liverpool, ask me when did you become a fan. I honestly don’t have an answer. I believe I was born a red. Some people expect me to say that I was won over the bright red shirts in one particular F.A. Cup final in the eighties, the decade of my childhood. Hand on hear though, it can never be the case, as back then in our humble home we only had a black and white television set. Still thinking about it, I do remember the 1989 Cup Final. Over here it used to be transmitted through an Italian channel called TMC, that thanks to the geographical proximity we used to get for free on our television sets through a poxy aerial on our roofs. Peter Frampton’s ‘Which Way the Wind Blows’ should have been the soundtrack to the match itself though rather than an Italian pundit getting beyond himself every now and then, as every now and then with a slight change in the direction of the wind or even worse an occasional gust of wind would seriously affect the picture offered to us. And I think that day in May might have been sunny in England, but it was surely windy back home. In the greater scheme of things it was only a hurdle through a marathon as eventually by the end of the match I was beyond myself with excitement and happiness. And then on Sunday I completed my celebrations by waking up as early as possible to get to the newsagents to get the paper and thus would be the proud owner of a few pictures of the reds celebrating the F.A. Cup victory, which once again, needless to say were still in black and white.
Since then a lot changed, cable television became the order of the day and local papers started printing in colour. My days in school and college changed into a job in banking, with the main perk being a salary that meant I could now afford the first trip to Anfield. It was a tour organised by our local supporters club, which by then I was only a member and later I served as a secretary amongst other posts. I was on the phone to put my name in the second I received the newsletter. I had a few sleepless nights thinking that if the club wouldn’t get the numbers I will only get my deposit back. But it was one of those induced fears that had no base at all, like when you lately see Steven Gerrard prepping up to take a penalty area. There are doubts but there is only one outcome, be it in the first or the ninetieth minute of the match. It was against Bradford when the Titi Camara mania was hitting full scale. Still, the thing that still sends shiver down my spine till this very day, nine years after is the green, green grass of Anfield. It was a Monday night game and the floodlights were shining on what Bill Shankly once called professional grass of Anfield but it was one sight to behold. Maybe am boring and next time I will tell you about how intriguing watching paint dry is but that was my baptism when entering Anfield for the first time. My fears of not actually making it into Anfield have now changed into being a bad omen for the side as Bradford went up. Once again my fears were unfounded as Titi Camara quickly made it 1-1, Jamie Redknapp scored from the spot and lately Vegard Heggem nailed the score 3-1.
The local supporters club that by fate have the premises a five minute drive away from home has by now became my second home. The Liverbird outside must have brought the attention of a few Liverpool fans holidaying in Malta, at least enough to at first make an apprehensive step in. The apprehension though soon changed into confident storytelling about the mighty reds as they feel at ease in the place with Bill Shankly looking all over them and a replica of the European Cup taking pride of the place amongst other innumerable memorabilia. Before we would be probably sitting there trying to make heads or tails of the situation through the buffered voice of Stephen Hunter. Now the match on the box is practically guaranteed. Phone numbers and emails are then swapped, tickets are promised and most importantly a friendship is forged through the lure of the mighty reds. I am proud to say that some of my best friends are actually from Liverpool and they are another main reason why I travel to Liverpool regularly.
Anfield was soon not enough though, and the away European trips become another annual fix, starting from Sofia, when apart from the 4-2 score-line, we all talk about the cold that our Mediterranean bodies could hardly take during the match. Coruna was next, and then Leverkusen. For Leverkusen though we stayed in Cologne the night before and one of my happiest anecdotes happened there. I was all in the mood singing along with fellow reds with one eye on the Chelsea v Barcelona match. At one particular moment I was making my way through a mass of bodies, when am struck by a familiar face. A face you know you know but can’t put your finger on where. It was actually the then Rafa’s assistant Pako Ayestran. As we crossed each other I asked him if am right to think that it’s him. He confirmed me but told me to keep it quiet. And then I see Rafa. I thought am daydreaming, and like Scousers do when somebody tells them to keep quiet, I rushed to tell a couple of mates that Rafa’s in the pub. I was believed as much as an email which informs you that you are the lucky winner of the lottery. This time though, the email was not spam but as hard as it is to fathom had arrived from a secure server. I had no camera on me to record such anecdote, but my word has been backed by every other red in the pub.
A year after, Big Ears came to our club in Malta. There I had it before our eyes, shining as ever, trying any move possible to look as if you’re nervously scratching your brow when really you just want to make contact with her, who is closely supervised by two big men in black, while posing for a picture with her.
This year I spent the first three months in Australia, and I realised more than ever what Liverpool F.C. means to me even though being born nowhere near Anfield. I managed to follow the reds almost every match, but watching it on your own at two in the morning, is nowhere like being with your mates, having a couple of drinks steaming off a long day or even a long week at work, with the reds being the real focal point, the one thing that bonds together. When I was at the Nou Camp the day before another great trip and experience I could not help but be intrigued by the ‘Mes Que un Club’ (More than a club) written through different colour seats. In the case of Liverpool F.C. what should be written to make this club justice? ‘More than a club, an institution with Scouse values at its heart that fascinates all kinds of people around the world’. But then again, neither the Centenary, nor the Main Stand are wide enough for that to be inserted.
posted by jean paul at 5:24 pm
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