21 years ago tragedy struck. At Hillsborough, 96 Liverpool fans were crushed to death in one of football's biggest disasters.
I remember it clearly. I was in the drive down the side of our house when mum came out to tell us that about 20 people had been killed. At the time, I didn't really comprehend but as the day wore on and the number rose the realisation started to sink in. The footage on the telly was the stuff of nightmares: bodies being laid out across the pitch, people gasping for breath with their faces squashed against the mesh. I'm sure we weren't the only household to watch the news in silent tears that night.
I have to admit here that I HATE football. I don't understand why grown men get paid an obscene amount of money to kick a ball around a field. I don't understand why people get into fights over a game. I don't understand why so called fans are prepared to travel the world just to cause trouble and vandalise. I don't understand why society still won't allow homosexual players to come out for fear of their lives (and seriously, don't try to tell me there are no gay footballers because statistically that is just impossible!). I don't understand the hero worship that is reserved for these players who behave like wild animals instead of gentlemen but that's just my opinion.
Despite my dislike of the sport and how it affects some people I will never forget the horror of Hillsborough. My home town is a mere 25 miles from Liverpool, I'm half Scouse and if push comes to shove, Liverpool is my team. Football is an intrinsic part of this thriving city. You are either Everton (like my Dad and brother) or Liverpool. The rivalry between the two teams is intense. Families and loved ones can bicker for hours about the merits of their chosen team. And yet one day a year this is set aside. April 15th is truce day. A day to reflect upon those 96 people who lost their lives on what should have been a great day out.
Last year I happened to be in Liverpool picking up a friend from the station. We found ourselves in the Catholic Cathedral (known locally and with affection as Paddy's Wigwam) as the time approached 3pm. I'm not religious in a conventional sense. I believe we should treat others as we wish to be treated. I don't like to be pigeon holed but I see myself as a spiritual, hippy, pagan with Buddhist tendencies (make of that what you will as I'm still confused!) And yet there was something deeply moving about being in the Cathedral that day. The Priest stepped forward and said a few words before the bells started their toll for the dead - 96, one for each soul lost.
The Cathedral held a mixed congregation. There were suited and booted types who had come from the office, there were tourists draped in Liverpool flags, there were Evertonian's in their strips but holding Liverpool scarves, there were people who were clearly remembering loved ones who didn't come back that day. It was a poignant and touching ceremony.
Across the city everything had stopped and I mean everything. Liverpool is a city that unites in times of trouble. Like a typical big family they can be tearing each others eyes out one minute but when push comes to shove they are all there when it matters. Nothing moved or spoke. The bells chimed simultaneously in the Catholic and Anglican Cathedrals (each church taking turns to ring) until all 96 tolls had completed.
We left the Catholic Cathedral and wandered down to the Anglican Cathedral. Although the bells and time for silence had finished the city was still unusually quiet. All around the Cathedrals were little bunches of flowers and groups of people there to grieve. There were as many Everton flags and scarves being laid down in remembrance and honour as Liverpool. Being a red or a blue had become insignificant.
Liverpool has a long memory and although the 96 men, women and children who lost their lives that day were taken tragically they will never be forgotten. Liverpool will never let them walk alone - and that is exactly as it should be.
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