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English Dom EyeWitness—In the crowd, a fan is tightly clasping a Tom Bucke is employed by The Sir Norman Chester Centre For Football Research at Leicester University. He went to the Hillsborough match and here presents his account ofthe day. ticket from a previous Liverpool game at Highbury. I t’s the right colour for these turnstiles. Meanwhile, the metal partitioning is being used by ticketless fans as a climbing frame for getting over the turnstiles. At the entrance, there’s an old bloke who is looking a bit desperate. By pushing back, I make enough space for him to get in. I show my ticket and at last I am in the stadium. I eventually make it to my seat, a little shaken after a group of fans, inside the stadium but without tickets, attempt to gatecrash the seated area. The game begins immediately and we watch a frenetic start, while below fans are soon climbing over the terrace fencing. To us, way up, it’s obviously a pitch invasion. Some supporters give those on the pitch abuse for spoiling the match, while the majority ignore it and watch the players. With fans encroaching on to the pitch the game is soon halted and our impression of a pitch invasion vanishes as fans keel over and lay prone on the turf. It’s two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon and we along with fifty Liverpool supporters are sat on a piece of grass outside a large supermarket in Sheffield. As we drink our cans of beer, we watch the steady stream of fans moving down the road towards the stadium. Behind us a young Liverpudlian lad is practising his shooting skills, one empty beer can ratdes off a low road sign and narrowly misses some fans near us. In the morning, driving up from Leicester, we pass dozens of Forest fans, scarves out of the windows, inflatables in the back. In a traffic jam outside Sheffield, a supporter is waving a five foot banana through his sun roof at someone further down the road. They return the wave using their inflatable trees. Near the ground the pubs are closed, but the off licences are open. One in particular is only allowing in fans two at a time in case they strip the place. The fan in front of me buys a can of beer and a small bottle of whisky. One to drink on the way to the ground, the other small enough to smuggle in. We leave our spot on the grass and join the army of people moving towards the road towards Hillsborough, walking against this tide are many fans looking for tickets. “You got any spares lads?” At the ground the accents change as we cross the main road and walk down the Forest end of the stadium. Everything is running smoothly here as Forest fans queue for, and pass through, the turnstiles. Having met a friend, Rogan Taylor, at reception we separate. I buy the programme and set off by myself down Parkside Road. I reach Leppings Lane at the tail end of some trouble. Two mounted policemen are chasing a young fan around the crowded junction. One policeman manages to catch him and shouts angrily “Where are you from?” He shakes the man by the scruff of the neck and bellows “You’re Liverpool aren’t you?” A crowd begins to gather but I don’t stay around. Must get to the ground, it’s nearly three o’clock. An entrance is packed with people. Groups of supporters are wandering around, confused “Is this the entrance to the West Stand?” There doesn’t appear to be any clear indication of what part of the stadium these turnstiles serve. I see six fans looking for the West Stand, deciding this isn’t it and heading back up the Lane. Worse than this is the sheer volume of people trying to get into the ground. A thick metal wall separates the turnstiles which feed the terraces and those which serve the stand. The area on the terrace side is packed with fans and it looks like a mounted policeman is trapped in the middle. The fans sing and chant while the metal dividing wall takes a severe beating. On the other side, there’s more confusion as some turnstiles seem to feed the North Stand as well as the west one. Again, the turnstiles are badly marked. Eventually, I catch a glimpse of the one I require and join the swaying mass of people trying to get in. Yet, the real seriousness of what has happened only dawns when we see a middleaged man, shirt around his neck, being given a heart massage. After around ten minutes, efforts to revive him appear to end. Along the touchline there are other motionless bodies. Ambulances come, advertising boards are used as stretchers, the goal’s netting is pulled down and a row of police officers is formed along the half way line. Everyone around me has been standing on their seats trying to see what’s going on. A few, however, are sat down, heads in hands, crying. A middle-aged man in front of me hasn’t been to a match for a long time. He’s here with his eight year old son, who doesn’t understand what’s going on “Dad, why are the firemen here?” Crowd Scene Eventually, the match is abandoned. Walking down Leppings Lane, conversations about what has happened are silenced by a fan venting his feelings on three policemen “That’s the fucking worst policing I ’ve ever seen!” On a packed bus supposedly going to the town centre, three Forests fans make sick jokes about the afternoon’s events. A group of Liverpool fans at the back decide to get off. “Bye bye, Scousers!” says someone, sarcastically. “We’re gonna beat you at Old Trafford!” replies one Liverpudlian. The Forest fan in front of me gazes out of the window at the Yorkshire landscape. “God, I hate Scousers nearly as much as I hate this place!” Our bus hasn’t moved for ages. We are only a hundred yards away from the stadium and caught up in an enormous traffic jam which stretches back to the city centre. I get off and join the thousands of supporters making the long walk away from Hillsborough, into town and past the phone boxes with their queues of fans ringing home. Tom Bucke
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As a kid, I stood on the terraces and watched them all: George Best; Bobby Charlton; Denis Law and the rest of that truly great side. But there were others that, to a child’s eyes, seemed awesome in stature. They appeared to have been left behind in the racial genes by departing Vikings as an insurance measure in case a future cash shortage required us to stump up with the Danegeld once more. There were a few of them and over the years they all got a chance to wear the cherry red shirt and stand immobile in the Manchester United defence. We had Bill Foulkes, whose presence was enough to terrify opposing forwards, our forwards, both sets of fans, the officials, the man outside the ground with the ‘Repent: The End Is Near’banner and several species of small furry animals. Then we had Ian Ure, whose chiselled likeness to this day stares out across the Pacific from the shores of Easter Island. Later there was Gordon McQueen, who cleared his lines by launching the ball over grandstands up and down the country, and when in doubt launched opposing players over grandstands, or at least into Row F. Then something happened to break the mould and my by now post-adolescent mind witnessed a new phenomena: the brave, the great, the severely scarred Kevin Moran. Kevin was unique, a Kamikaze who came back for another shot. He arrived at Old Trafford from a background in Gaelic Football and proudly carried the bumps to te 4©o prove it. His head had more stitches than an Oxfam patchwork quilt and his hobby seemed to be comparison studies of hospital suture techniques from first hand experience. No Saturday afternoon was now complete without a cheery wave from Kevin as he was carried around the pitch perimeter en route to the local infirmary, face streaked with blood after some suicidal headlong dive into a goalpost or similar catastrophe. Over the seasons, our Kevin had a go at placing his head, which resembled an A-Z of Greater Manchester with criss-crossed scar tissue, in every dangerous circumstance available in his allotted sixty minutes of football before heading for casualty on his personal stretcher. The speciality was to pop it in front of an opponent’s boot as it drew back in anticipation of a Peter Lorimer-style volley. He was said to be on first name terms with every St John Ambulance official who sat behind a corner flag. Kevin’sAbove For a while, all was calm and he seemed to enjoy being around long enough for the customary full-time handshake, but those of us that loved him knew it couldn’t last. He was up to something. Something big! Come the 1985 Cup Final and United are deadlocked with Everton. Suddenly, ‘Chugger’Reid stepped up a gear into ambling pace and bore down on the United penalty area (a novelty in itself). There was Kevin. The rest is history. The ref pointed to Big Ron’s tasteless Man At C&A suit and Bri-Nylon shirt and our man became the first player to be sent off in a Cup Final at Wembley. Was this it? Was this what Kevin had been brooding over for months? It seemed so. — 9 — We move on and it’s a cold New Years Day at Old Trafford, the visitors are Newcasde and as the teams come out, there is a glint in Kevin’s eye. He’d been a bit quiet of late, just the odd black eye and gashed forehead, nothing of note in the K M catalogue of injury. He bides his time and, when the moment is right, sticks his head into the thick of things, is knocked unconscious and swallows his tongue! Kevin Help Us Now this was serious and seems to me to be going a bit too far, even for Kevin. However, over the next few months, it becomes a first team habit and both Bryan Robson and Steve Bruce follow where the great man led by copying the tongue swallowing routine. There was now nothing left for Kevin to accomplish in United’s colours and an impending departure to Stoke was rumoured. Instead, he did the sensible thing and opted for Spain, where the letting of blood in the name of sport is appreciated by a crowd weaned on the bravery of bull fighters armed only with swords, knives, a tablecloth and several mates on horseback carrying an armoury of medieval weaponry. He is currently discovering new serious injury potential at Sporting Gijon. I hope they admire him as much as we did at Old Trafford, and return his salute as he is carried off on the inevitable stretcher, clasping a gauze bandage. There will be half a dozen stitches before the interval and then back out for the second half, a revitalised man, with a misty, far away look in his eyes and yet another piece of protective sticky tape on his forehead. Nig Richards

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English

Dom

EyeWitness—In the crowd, a fan is tightly clasping a

Tom Bucke is employed by The Sir Norman Chester Centre For Football Research at Leicester University. He went to the Hillsborough match and here presents his account ofthe day.

ticket from a previous Liverpool game at Highbury. I t’s the right colour for these turnstiles.

Meanwhile, the metal partitioning is being used by ticketless fans as a climbing frame for getting over the turnstiles. At the entrance, there’s an old bloke who is looking a bit desperate. By pushing back, I make enough space for him to get in. I show my ticket and at last I am in the stadium. I eventually make it to my seat, a little shaken after a group of fans, inside the stadium but without tickets, attempt to gatecrash the seated area.

The game begins immediately and we watch a frenetic start, while below fans are soon climbing over the terrace fencing. To us, way up, it’s obviously a pitch invasion. Some supporters give those on the pitch abuse for spoiling the match, while the majority ignore it and watch the players. With fans encroaching on to the pitch the game is soon halted and our impression of a pitch invasion vanishes as fans keel over and lay prone on the turf.

It’s two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon and we along with fifty Liverpool supporters are sat on a piece of grass outside a large supermarket in Sheffield. As we drink our cans of beer, we watch the steady stream of fans moving down the road towards the stadium. Behind us a young Liverpudlian lad is practising his shooting skills, one empty beer can ratdes off a low road sign and narrowly misses some fans near us.

In the morning, driving up from Leicester, we pass dozens of Forest fans, scarves out of the windows, inflatables in the back. In a traffic jam outside Sheffield, a supporter is waving a five foot banana through his sun roof at someone further down the road. They return the wave using their inflatable trees. Near the ground the pubs are closed, but the off licences are open. One in particular is only allowing in fans two at a time in case they strip the place. The fan in front of me buys a can of beer and a small bottle of whisky. One to drink on the way to the ground, the other small enough to smuggle in.

We leave our spot on the grass and join the army of people moving towards the road towards Hillsborough, walking against this tide are many fans looking for tickets. “You got any spares lads?” At the ground the accents change as we cross the main road and walk down the Forest end of the stadium. Everything is running smoothly here as Forest fans queue for, and pass through, the turnstiles. Having met a friend, Rogan Taylor, at reception we separate. I buy the programme and set off by myself down Parkside Road.

I reach Leppings Lane at the tail end of some trouble. Two mounted policemen are chasing a young fan around the crowded junction. One policeman manages to catch him and shouts angrily “Where are you from?” He shakes the man by the scruff of the neck and bellows “You’re Liverpool aren’t you?” A crowd begins to gather but I don’t stay around. Must get to the ground, it’s nearly three o’clock.

An entrance is packed with people. Groups of supporters are wandering around, confused “Is this the entrance to the West Stand?” There doesn’t appear to be any clear indication of what part of the stadium these turnstiles serve. I see six fans looking for the West Stand, deciding this isn’t it and heading back up the Lane. Worse than this is the sheer volume of people trying to get into the ground. A thick metal wall separates the turnstiles which feed the terraces and those which serve the stand. The area on the terrace side is packed with fans and it looks like a mounted policeman is trapped in the middle. The fans sing and chant while the metal dividing wall takes a severe beating.

On the other side, there’s more confusion as some turnstiles seem to feed the North Stand as well as the west one. Again, the turnstiles are badly marked. Eventually, I catch a glimpse of the one I require and join the swaying mass of people trying to get in.

Yet, the real seriousness of what has happened only dawns when we see a middleaged man, shirt around his neck, being given a heart massage. After around ten minutes, efforts to revive him appear to end. Along the touchline there are other motionless bodies. Ambulances come, advertising boards are used as stretchers, the goal’s netting is pulled down and a row of police officers is formed along the half way line.

Everyone around me has been standing on their seats trying to see what’s going on. A few, however, are sat down, heads in hands, crying. A middle-aged man in front of me hasn’t been to a match for a long time. He’s here with his eight year old son, who doesn’t understand what’s going on “Dad, why are the firemen here?”

Crowd Scene

Eventually, the match is abandoned. Walking down Leppings Lane, conversations about what has happened are silenced by a fan venting his feelings on three policemen “That’s the fucking worst policing I ’ve ever seen!” On a packed bus supposedly going to the town centre, three Forests fans make sick jokes about the afternoon’s events. A group of Liverpool fans at the back decide to get off. “Bye bye, Scousers!” says someone, sarcastically. “We’re gonna beat you at Old Trafford!” replies one Liverpudlian. The Forest fan in front of me gazes out of the window at the Yorkshire landscape. “God, I hate Scousers nearly as much as I hate this place!”

Our bus hasn’t moved for ages. We are only a hundred yards away from the stadium and caught up in an enormous traffic jam which stretches back to the city centre. I get off and join the thousands of supporters making the long walk away from Hillsborough, into town and past the phone boxes with their queues of fans ringing home.

Tom Bucke

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