Here We Go Gathering Cups In May

Allt Nicky

Description

Seven European Cup finals. Seven fans. Seven amazing adventures following the team they love. This book celebrates the achievements of Liverpool FC in Europe, and in particular a love affair with Old Big Ears - the European Cup. It's an ongoing affair that began with the legendary and, in those days, unprecedented exodus of 30,000 Liverpool fans to Rome in 1977, has taken in the glories of Paris and Istanbul, endured the horror of Brussels, and still burns as brightly today with Athens 2007, just the latest staging post of Liverpool's trans-European express. Above all, Here We Go Gathering Cups In May tells of the bond between a club and its fans: the lengths those fans will go to in order to be there at the final to cheer on their team, vivid accounts of what happened along the way, their escapades in some of Europe's iconic capitals, and their recollections of those historic nights - nights of glory and, sometimes, nights of tragedy.

Sujets

• USA
• Fútbol americano
• American football
• États-Unis

Informations

• Publié par: Canongate Books
• Date de parution: 06 septembre 2007
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781847676276
• Langue: English

Extrait

HERE WE GO GATHERING CUPS IN MAY
Liverpool in Europe – the Fans’ Story
by
Nicky Allt, Tony Barrett, Jegsy Dodd, Peter Hooton, Dave Kirby, John Maguire and Kevin Sampson
It goes without saying that this book is dedicated to the 96 …

And to Mrs Shankly and Mrs Paisley for supporting their husbands’ fierce allegiance to turning Liverpool from an overgrown Anfield superloo into a streamlined footballing superpower.


The four people above allied to raw Scouse passion became our Alchemy.


And finally: to a Bootle lady, Mrs Margaret McDonald – For gathering a needle, a thread, and a line from her head, Before waving her son off to follow the Red. Mrs Mac – A seven-writer salute goes out just to you xxxxxxx


It would be eight, but the eighth writer … it was you.
CONTENTS

Foreword – Jimmy Case
Introduction – Nicky Allt
Rome, 1977 – Dave Kirby
London, 1978 – Nicky Allt
Paris, 1981 – Peter Hooton
Rome, 1984 – Jegsy Dodd
Brussels, 1985 – Kevin Sampson
Istanbul, 2005 – John Maguire
Athens, 2007 – Tony Barrett

FOREWORD
Standing on the pitch at the Olympic Stadium in Rome, 1977, was one of the proudest moments of my life. I scanned the massed ranks of red and white, hoping to see a few mates or my two brothers, Frank and Dave, who were amongst the 26,000 that travelled over. It was an incredible sight. It seemed a far cry from the days when we used to get the number 86 bus, then the 27, to Anfield. Like most young scousers back then I served my time in the ‘Boys’ Pen’ watching great players like Peter Thompson, Ian Callaghan and my hero, Tommy Smith. At every home game we’d try and bunk out of the pen into the Kop. We’d wait till the copper moved away from the fence, then bail over and join the swaying crowd and deafening noise. Over the years I travelled home and away to places like West Brom and Walsall – fitting the match around my job as an apprentice spark and my amateur football career.


While at South Liverpool I was spotted by Tom Saunders and, after a two-week trial, agreed to sign as a semi-pro. I’d play two mornings a week at Melwood then head straight to a building site in the afternoon. Most of my mates off the sites went to the match. It was a welcome diversion away from a tough job with poor pay and poor conditions – following Liverpool could do that; take you away from it all. I finally made my debut in April ’75. It was a fantastic feeling being named alongside Toshack and Keegan. I ran out in front of the packed Kop where I’d stood for so long. The raw passion and pride that they felt was a natural part of me; there was no way I was going to let them down. Two years later – on that incredible night in Rome – I stared at the red masses who had gone to unbelievable lengths to make the journey. If things had turned out differently, I know for a fact that I’d have been right there in the middle of them waving a chequered flag. That’s how it is when you’re a fanatic – you’d do anything and travel anywhere to watch Liverpool. I’d have died for those fans that night. I knew exactly how they felt because they were me – I was them.


Jimmy Case, Liverpool 1972–1981

INTRODUCTION
W alking the atmospheric boulevards of old Marseilles, eventually reaching dockside, I found the bar where I’d sat and spoken to a wizened old Frenchman all those years ago. Presuming he’d be part of the incoming tide by now, I never bothered to ask the owners of his whereabouts. Patrick Le Duveneh, Marseilles fisherman, had told me among many pearls of wisdom that he’d have his ashes scattered at sea the next time I visited his Southern French port. Yeah, that’s what he called it: his ; like he was the yacht-owning, wrinkly Popeye version of the southern King of France.
Almost thirty years since I last breathed the intoxicating whiff of Gauloise smoke, sea air and Gallic streets, I let the scenery, sounds and a sprinkling of Mediterranean salt water wash over me. Noisy ocean waves crashed into boats and rocks with a densely defiant thud that proclaimed, ‘I am the sea’. Like Patrick, I too loved everything about the ocean. Along with old briny, I also loved these rough and ready portside settings – bit like Naples, bit like Hamburg, bit like Liverpool. The rougher the setting, find the right people and, warmer the welcome.
Thinking how I’d gotten here last time, penniless after another European trek, myself, Fast Eddie and Joey O’ had started out at William Hill’s betting office outside Liverpool’s Lime Street Station. With no real intention other than to pass time and see what Fast Eddie could do with his just-cashed giro cheque, we talked about the buzz of hitting the road. Arriving back from places like Amsterdam, Geneva and Cologne, story-laden, hungry for more, with a travel bug nipping away at toes and backsides that made sitting or standing still for five minutes seem like a life sentence, we badly wanted off.
Small, blue, betting-office pens between teeth, nervously biting at the over-chewed tops, we talked of where we’d like to take off to, there and then, if a big pools win came in (pipe dreaming, as we didn’t do the pools), or, if wrinkly Lester Piggott romped home on a decently priced filly to put a nice, fat, bundle in your back bin. You know, as a dreamer does, as a kid does, as you do. Fast Eddie, pinpointing Monaco as his beloved destination, grinned to himself, tearing another betting slip from the metal container on the wall. Asked why he’d chosen a rich mans dining table as the place he’d cash his chips, he replied, ‘If all those tax-dodging fruitcakes were spending money there, and the place was riddled with gambling casinos, I’d be aboard glistening yachts, rolling dice under the stars every night with pop stars and princesses.’
A long-winded answer by our own in-house gambling fiend, his mid-afternoon dream got sliced when Joey O’, countered, ‘Who are you kidding, Betting-Office Balls? On yachts! You only have to bunk the Royal Iris ferry across the Mersey to Birkenhead and you’re spewing your ring soon as the engines kick in!’
He was right about Eddie’s seafaring legs, but it was only a harmless dream. Defending the lad’s answer, I responded, ‘Well, where would you choose then, Joey the rock-hard pirate?
‘I’d get right off to the Caribbean. Money goes a long way there. It’s sunny, there’s loads of cricket and, there’s a thousand black beauties to wine and dine and take to those boss reggae clubs!’
Loving cricket in school, since getting tuned into Bob Marley’s ‘Exodus’ by a calypso Scouser, he listened to nothing but reggae music. I understood his choice, till Fast Eddie butted in: ‘Ha! Cricket’s a load of shit! Sitting there, bored off your skull with a big bag of money to spend!’
‘Yeah, he’s got a point there with the cricket,’ I offered.
‘Nah, you’ve got no culture, youse two. Crickets a game for lords. I’d be a lord in the Caribbean. Yeah, Lord Joseph of Trinidad, or Barbados or Jamaica, that’d do for me.’
‘Kingston is in Jamaica … isn’t it?’ I quizzed.
‘Yeah … why?’ asked Joey.
‘Cos Kingston is one seriously rough gaff and you’d be mugged, battered and robbed within a week.’
Clocking me for a moment, he asked ‘Alright smartarse where would you go then?’
Without a thought I snapped back, ‘Marseilles!’
‘Marseilles?’ Joey O’ goes, ‘that’s even rougher than Kingston!’
Wanting to be different, not choosing the obvious glitter-paved tinseltown, I’d been reading a book about the mystical French port, something with French Connection similarities and uttered the first thing that came to mind.
‘And your reasons?’ enquired Joey O’.
‘Well, it sounds like a mad dockland place full of gangsters and molls, and you could shoot into Monaco for a blast like Eddie said, but live with real people and not all those phoney rich pricks when you needed to get your head together.’ He looked at me for the briefest, turning to Eddie for opinion. Eddie had grown disinterested, already studying the riders for the next giddy-up ride. ‘Marseilles, yeah, that’s where I’d go right now – no passport, no bags, nothing!’
‘Right now, yeah, you’d go right now?’ Eddie had rejoined the chinwag, speaking through teeth still clenched around a small, blue plastic pen, his eyes glued intently to the TV screen above. ‘Well, if this wins, let’s go, right now, yeah? The Monaco Grand Prix is on this week and I’ve always fancied a bet on those nutcase car drivers. Anyway, it’s Lester Piggott in the next and, guess what, the skinny little fucker’s not even favourite!’
Killing to hit the road, I didn’t think he had the bottle. Off the cuff was usually me, but noting the seriousness in his voice I sat up. I hated horse racing, but if it could take me to Marseilles and the Monaco Grand Prix, then maybe it wasn’t such a nags ’n’ moneybags sport after all. Wanting the same commitment, Eddie asked for whatever change sat in our pockets. Holding back a pound for bus fares home, in case Lester had an off day, we raised almost twenty-nine pounds and watched as Eddie wrote out the race time, the name of horse and the amount that, in my mind, we were about to squander. Under starter’s orders I asked Joey O’ if the horse had a chance. Replying that with Lester you always had a chance, I took his words discerningly.
Soon as the race gun sounded, Piggott hit the front and, that’s where he stayed right to the finishing line. At 7–1 our own race to the Station was up and out of the blocks, as the lady behind the counter paid the readies. Bouncing outside, Eddie asked if we wanted a quick scoff. Answering for the two of us, I said, ‘No, fuck all that, let’s hit the road!’
With nothing except a tightly wound bundle of notes (two hundred pound) and three well-chewed biros, we jumped the first London train to Victoria, had a free nosebag in west London, where we left the restaurant faster than Lester’s horse, hopped aboard the night train to Dover, then Calais, bunking the boat fr