This was the place that made me. When I hit my teenage years, that awkward, confusing period, it was here I headed on my own. Maybe I was looking for something. I don't know. At first, they were nervous forays into this new world. I'd buy a programme from the lad on corner, not to read it but to hide behind, to bury myself in its pages in case anyone asked something of the impostor in their midst. With time, I came to know the nuances of this place, the codes. People had their spots; the two elderly friends, one always in a Fila hat and always shivering, no matter the weather, always half way up the Kop and just in line with the right post. The singers were pitched up at the back, using the corrugated sheeting as their drum.
Over the years, I found my place on that terrace, found my voice. I went from guessing at the words to songs, miming, mouth contorted like a fish cast on to a river back, to finally singing aloud. I saw men take their final breaths on that terrace. Saw fathers placing milk crates on the concrete so their small sons could see over the heads of those in front. I saw the batons of dependence switch between those fathers and sons, as those milk-crates were no longer needed and stayed at home. I went from standing on that terrace to walking along it, head up now, selling fanzines I helped write and make on my gran's dining table. I took photos on it that became the covers of magazines. But there was one moment on that Kop that really impacted me. I'd argued and fallen out with my Dad, a common event at that time, and I'd come here to escape from everything. It was a place he did not come. But, shortly before kick off, I saw him, come through the turnstile and weave his way through the crowd. He was looking for me; an attempt at reconciliation. An attempt he'd never made before. But, I let him walk around, hid from him. He never let me know he was there that day and I never told him I saw him. Years later, just before he passed away, it was that event that would not leave me alone. I knew that it would be a stick I'd beat myself with forever, unless I put things right. I dropped the guard of feigned disinterest at him being my father. I let him in. I'm glad I did.
The old stand will soon be demolished, its concrete steps and iron beams saturated with song and story, razed and taken away. My father and the terrace steps, the foundations of my formation, both now dust.
beautiful! really enjoyed this one
omfg well done