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 whole smooth 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 striking tales in 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 disasters, the tragic failures in Sheffield and Brussels, and the barren years of the past due 60s and the 90s.
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Additional resources for 44 Years With the Same Bird
Would he think I was just another little tosser wasting his time, or realize I was such a huge fan I’d stood up for him in the playground when he’d been ridiculed as a pretty boy who wasn’t fit to lace Roger Hunt’s boots? I’d loved Alun Evans from the first time I set eyes on his blond mop in his debut against Leicester in September 1968. As with every other home game back then I went with Our Vic, wooden stool tucked under my arm, entering an Anfield Road turnstile as soon as it opened at half-past one.
It was another sign from above that me and Liverpool were destined for each other. Celebrations went on long into the night. Uncles and aunties descended on my nana’s with their kids and left them there as they all went over to Bent’s back parlour for a night of revelry. Crates were dragged back by the men and the women made sarnies. Reg got on the piano and the party began. The old songs about ‘Red Roses for Blue Ladies’ and ‘Slow Boats to China’ were interspersed with ‘Ee-aye-addios’ and ‘We’ll Be Running Round Wembley With The Cup’.
Actually, like most splits, we’d been growing apart for a while. Tony Hateley had been bought to partner Hunt up front, and St John was switched from number 9 to number 10. From being a 20 goals-a-season man to half-a-dozen. He was still a vital team player, but a kid needs more than that from a hero. He needs a goalscorer. He needs to see his man producing a little bit of magic that flummoxes a defence, before bursting the net and running to the crowd to soak in the mass adulation. When you’re ten your hero has to be the one who does the things that you want to do.