A pocket of reflection......Justice for the 96.

Hillsborough- 15th April 1989

I slowly walked across the gravel car park outside Hillsborough Stadium, a bunch a red flowers in hand that offered the most inferior of sympathies. It was my third and final year at Sheffield Hallam University but the first time I had been in Sheffield for the anniversary.

I walked through on the right hand side of Leppings Lane end, a lone steward pointing the direction towards which I was to lay the flowers. As I turned the corner and walked a few more yards I saw two men in their late forties sitting 5 or 6 rows up, eyes as red as the Kop on a European night at Anfield.

The stadium lay silent, the brisk spring breeze of South Yorkshire swirled around the stadium. These two men sat close together, they looked tired, crestfallen at the events that had unfolded here all those years ago.
I didn’t say a word to them but I knew they were Liverpudlians, I knew they were there that horrendous day and I knew they had lost and suffered. I didn’t know them personally, I’d never spoken to them before that day and I’ll most likely never see them again. But I felt a connection to their misery, to whatever heartache that besieged them over two decades ago.

As I lay the flowers behind the goal, I took a minute to pay my respects, to remember the names of those who’d lost their lives. The last image I have is of those two men, still in the same frozen position as when I arrived and that is something that will stay with me forever.

As a Liverpool fan you feel part of something more than a football club, it’s an archaic institution that represents the lives of so many. Stories are passed down of games, players and journey’s gone by. There’s a part of you that feels like you were there. The story of Hillsborough however is the one story that I’ll remember the most.

I wasn’t even around in April 1989, I was 11 months away from coming into this world. It would be 5 or 6 years before I’d begin to think of Liverpool as my team. It would be a few more years later when, on a school trip down to London I accidently and shamefully bought the Sun newspaper without realising the extent to which it had enraged a city.

Since then I’ve grown up, become part of the clubs tradition and paid my ticket money. But most importantly I’ve listened. I have listened to those who were alive that day, who had witnessed it in person or watched as it unfolded on television. I even met a Yorkshire woman who, after the bodies of the dead had been removed from the temporary morgue in the stadium, had the horrifying task of cleaning the room where hundreds had lay injured and others had taken their last breath.

Learning the history of something, not just a football club, acts as a model for you as a person to develop your own life, to follow the ways with which you deem to be the correct ones. Sometimes those stories are good, sometimes, like Hillsborough, they are utterly gut-wrenching in every sense of the word. Sometimes they make you stop and appreciate what you have and who you have, and it makes life all that more special.

For anyone reading this who doesn’t know what Hillsborough is, consider this; this tragedy happened before my birth, but it has given me more lessons in life than most things ever will. It has given me an added determination to succeed in my chosen career field. Through watching the relentless search for justice these families have undertaken for the past 24 years puts everything into perspective. There is something deeply ingrained in humans beings to search for justice, to search for the truth and these people have gone past epitomising that. It has given me admiration for them beyond any stretch of recognition.

Let’s for a second forget the politics of this, I don’t need to remind you of the controversies in the aftermath of Hillsborough. And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, look it up. Look it up and prepare to be astounded, ashamed, disappointed in our system. Astounded that a story like this is true. Ashamed that our countries institutions acted like this when human life was involved. Disappointed that 96 were not given a chance to live and to breathe, to love and to feel again. The words and phrases we associate with this disaster; ‘Justice for the 96’, ‘Don’t buy the Sun’, ‘24000 fans travelled that day, 96 never came home’, will never get old, will never cease to offer as powerful a message now than it did 24 years go.

This was nothing more than a monumental cover up. If you think moral, think the opposite. If you think truth, think the opposite. If you think clarity, think the opposite. If you think life......think death, and your heart will break. This is a relentless heartache that has spanned the course of my whole life. An agonising campaign for justice that should have been answered long, long ago. But for a reason unbeknown to me, these families, these tired people who wake up every morning and fight for a cause that would bring most to their knees, when they shouldn’t have too. They should NOT have too. Not anymore.

They are the inspiration. They are the beaming light coming of a city knocked down on countless occasions. They are the reason we remember this injustice, this tragedy, and I’m selfishly appreciative of the perspective they have given me on life as they continue to keep alive the memories of their loved ones who have moved on. Remember them, and remember what they have done and continue to do in their fight for the truth.

Justice for the 96.