You are told, by your Dad, of Elisha Scott and Billy Liddell, his heroes of the 30/40s.  Of Hunt and St John, my uncles heroes of the 60s. You sit with the men at family parties, in the back kitchen, listening to their great footy debates, the tactics, memories, stories, laughter.  The banter with Uncle Tommy, the mad Evertonian.  You, without knowing it, are being groomed for the great day, your first match. 

Nottingham Forrest at home, the colour green of the pitch, don’t forget this was the late 60s and black ‘n’ white teles. The pungent smell of tobacco and ale hanging thick in the air, the crimson red kits, the noise, the colour, the ebb n flow of the huge, huge kop.We won 6--0, "you can come again lad" I was told by one and all, and I did.  The seasons rolled by, great seasons, great players, great managers. Bill Shankly was God like, he held us all in his hands, the club we know now was built on his inspiration.  So what does Anfield mean to me?  

When I stand there now and look around the old ground when its empty, every empty seat, blade of grass, girder, stairway, groans and aches with the weight of memories. The place is full of ghosts of the past on and off the pitch. On the great European nights we know how to tap into our past, I stand with me Dad, me uncles, I know Shanks and Paisley are there, willing the Redmen on to victory.  These nights feel spiritual, religious, a high mass, a holy communion of us all past and present. That’s what I feel of Anfield and what Anfield means to me.

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