By Brian Reade
Fusing the blind ardour of a lifelong supporter with the chilly eye of an award-winning journalist, this is often an up-close and private view of the complete sleek period of Britain's such a lot profitable soccer membership. From their first ever FA Cup win in 1965 to the Champions League defeat in Athens in 2007, this evaluation takes at the outstanding tales at the back of the forty eight trophies Liverpool has received. Highlighting the memorable nights that propelled the membership to 5 eu Cups, 3 UEFA Cups, 12 titles, and numerous family cup triumphs, this account additionally discusses their sour mess ups, the tragic mess ups in Sheffield and Brussels, and the barren years of the overdue 60s and the 90s.
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Extra info for 44 Years With the Same Bird
Or even that it was an infatuation, which by definition means a total love for a specific object of desire to the exclusion of all else. An object you think about constantly, which becomes the lens through which you view life. I’ve since learned how to rein it in. These days if I’m asked to write a piece about the happiest moment of my life, or how I’d spend the perfect day, I veer away from Liverpool FC, even though it is right there, smack in the middle of the answer. When I was thirteen, I couldn’t see the need and didn’t have any meaningful experiences outside of my obsession to offer an alternative.
Match Of The Day had begun that season on BBC2, but nobody had the channel, and all the radio gave you was the shipping forecast and Sing Something Simple. What made Our Vic squat with pained concentration before the Grandstand teleprinter every Saturday? Especially when any display of emotion was met with a slap off my grandad whose horses had gone down, soon to be followed by his Littlewoods coupon, meaning that three-mile hike to the docks on Monday morning was still a reality. Back then we spent every weekend in my nana’s terraced house in Wavertree, the part of Liverpool where both my parents had grown up, and where I’d spent my first six years until Reg’s job as a car parts manager moved him up to Preston.
Once inside, I’d buy a programme, find a crash barrier a third of the way up towards the Kemlyn Road, place the stool down, hear the opening bars of the song that always kicked off the Tannoy service, ‘Let’s Go’ and spend the next hour-and-a-half alternating eyes from programme to pitch. As with most kids who didn’t go to the Boys Pen, a zoo-like monkey cage at the top left-hand corner of the Kop, I felt like a bit of a fraud. A bottler who’d copped out of military service after hearing dark tales about snatched bus fares and yockers all over the back of your head.
44 Years With the Same Bird by Brian Reade