people die in the crush.
Thirty-two Italians, four Belgians, two French people and one person from Northern Ireland die.
Hooligans are to blame.
History is to blame.
Twenty years of terrace culture is to blame.
Indiscriminate ticket touting is to blame.
Poor policing is to blame.
Poor crowd management is to blame.
Poor stadium maintenance is to blame.
But UEFA absolve themselves of ignoring the warnings, of staging a match in an arena unworthy of the role.
A condemned structure crumbling to pieces.
A ground in an advanced state of decay.
Such a stadium hosting the centrepiece of the season.
The European Cup Final.
Chicken-wire fencing separating rival supporters while Rome 84 still burns in the blood.
A request from Liverpool CEO Peter Robinson to have the game moved due to safety concerns filed in a drawer.
The Belgian police absolve themselves of not employing the manpower, of inertia, of not knowing how to handle a football match on such a scale, of not understanding what the fuck to do when two sets of fans turn on each other.
English football is on its knees, bruised and bleeding from open wounds.
UEFA observer Gunter Schneider sticks the boot in and the bitch in the blue dress draws the knife.
Liverpool FC shoulders responsibility for the actions of hooligans.
The city of Liverpool shoulders responsibility for the actions of hooligans.
English football shoulders the blame for the actions of hooligans.
English clubs are banned from European competition.
Up and down the country fans are treated with contempt. They’re the scum of the earth, the dregs of a nation. An honest supporter is a thug taking a day off.
There’s a war on football.
Much, much later a Belgian judge concludes that blame should not rest solely with English fans and that some culpability lays with the police and authorities.
Fourteen supporters are convicted of involuntary manslaughter.UEFA officials are threatened with imprisonment but receive conditional discharges. A member of the Belgian Football Union is charged with regrettable negligence. A Belgian police captain who made fundamental errors is charged with negligence. Both receive a six-month suspended sentence.
But this is much, much later.
And the damage is already done.
In all sorts of ways.
Thursday
When he reached the bedroom she was sleeping. Of course she was, it was 3 a.m. for fuck’s sake. He slipped into bed next to her, lay there for ten minutes unable to find any sort of restfulness. Lying on his back he felt the weight of the duvet against his chest, the obvious presence of his beating heart. He felt the blood rushing through his body, felt it in his limbs, his toes and fingers. He heard it racing through his head in pulsing torrents. He thought about cut-off points, about when a life starts and when a life ends, about when a life is and when a life isn’t. He looked at the clock on the dresser.
3.13 a.m.
He thought about a solitary St John’s ambulance threading its way through a disaster zone, a policeman lifting the corner flag from its berth, a second policeman tearing along at the ambulance’s flank. A solitary St John’s ambulance soon mobbed by the desperate and the distraught.
A single St John’s ambulance.
He pictured the Liverpool skyline, the two Liver birds, the monolithic cathedral, the gates of Anfield draped in scarves that hung like tears, a carpet of grief on the sacred turf.
The dark of the room unsettled him. He listened to the trains shunting around the station, tried to search for an away day, any day that wasn’t that day, a day with a happy ending. He couldn’t locate one.
He turned to look at Kelly, the familiar outline of her turned-away shoulder.
The two of them lost in the darkness.
Again.
Tragedy after tragedy.
Warning after warning unheeded.
Stairway 13, Ibrox. 1961.
Two fatalities.
Stairway 13, Ibrox. 1967.
Eleven injured.
Stairway 13, Ibrox. 1969.
Twenty-nine injured.
Stairway 13, Ibrox.
Thirty-two Italians, four Belgians, two French people and one person from Northern Ireland die.
Hooligans are to blame.
History is to blame.
Twenty years of terrace culture is to blame.
Indiscriminate ticket touting is to blame.
Poor policing is to blame.
Poor crowd management is to blame.
Poor stadium maintenance is to blame.
But UEFA absolve themselves of ignoring the warnings, of staging a match in an arena unworthy of the role.
A condemned structure crumbling to pieces.
A ground in an advanced state of decay.
Such a stadium hosting the centrepiece of the season.
The European Cup Final.
Chicken-wire fencing separating rival supporters while Rome 84 still burns in the blood.
A request from Liverpool CEO Peter Robinson to have the game moved due to safety concerns filed in a drawer.
The Belgian police absolve themselves of not employing the manpower, of inertia, of not knowing how to handle a football match on such a scale, of not understanding what the fuck to do when two sets of fans turn on each other.
English football is on its knees, bruised and bleeding from open wounds.
UEFA observer Gunter Schneider sticks the boot in and the bitch in the blue dress draws the knife.
Liverpool FC shoulders responsibility for the actions of hooligans.
The city of Liverpool shoulders responsibility for the actions of hooligans.
English football shoulders the blame for the actions of hooligans.
English clubs are banned from European competition.
Up and down the country fans are treated with contempt. They’re the scum of the earth, the dregs of a nation. An honest supporter is a thug taking a day off.
There’s a war on football.
Much, much later a Belgian judge concludes that blame should not rest solely with English fans and that some culpability lays with the police and authorities.
Fourteen supporters are convicted of involuntary manslaughter.UEFA officials are threatened with imprisonment but receive conditional discharges. A member of the Belgian Football Union is charged with regrettable negligence. A Belgian police captain who made fundamental errors is charged with negligence. Both receive a six-month suspended sentence.
But this is much, much later.
And the damage is already done.
In all sorts of ways.
Thursday
When he reached the bedroom she was sleeping. Of course she was, it was 3 a.m. for fuck’s sake. He slipped into bed next to her, lay there for ten minutes unable to find any sort of restfulness. Lying on his back he felt the weight of the duvet against his chest, the obvious presence of his beating heart. He felt the blood rushing through his body, felt it in his limbs, his toes and fingers. He heard it racing through his head in pulsing torrents. He thought about cut-off points, about when a life starts and when a life ends, about when a life is and when a life isn’t. He looked at the clock on the dresser.
3.13 a.m.
He thought about a solitary St John’s ambulance threading its way through a disaster zone, a policeman lifting the corner flag from its berth, a second policeman tearing along at the ambulance’s flank. A solitary St John’s ambulance soon mobbed by the desperate and the distraught.
A single St John’s ambulance.
He pictured the Liverpool skyline, the two Liver birds, the monolithic cathedral, the gates of Anfield draped in scarves that hung like tears, a carpet of grief on the sacred turf.
The dark of the room unsettled him. He listened to the trains shunting around the station, tried to search for an away day, any day that wasn’t that day, a day with a happy ending. He couldn’t locate one.
He turned to look at Kelly, the familiar outline of her turned-away shoulder.
The two of them lost in the darkness.
Again.
Tragedy after tragedy.
Warning after warning unheeded.
Stairway 13, Ibrox. 1961.
Two fatalities.
Stairway 13, Ibrox. 1967.
Eleven injured.
Stairway 13, Ibrox. 1969.
Twenty-nine injured.
Stairway 13, Ibrox.
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