Watching The Liverpool-Manchester City Game At Anfield Was Extraordinary
Last week, I went to England to play golf with my father. You see, we take these father-son trips because he was a successful businessman and we get along quite well, because throughout my life, I endeavored to make my father proud. If our relationship and its perks make you angry, I assume you have a terrible relationship with your unsuccessful, disappointed father. Whereas we take great joy in practicing the delicate art of the 8-iron, under-the-wind bump-and-run so essential to links golf, I’m sure you take great displeasure in your father’s 8-iron, under-the-kneecap, swing-and-cripple so essential to his “as my daddy taught me” character building meal plan. Hey, you guys can fix it; it’s not too late. Jk it’s too late.
We had the time of our lives. It was golf from sun-up to sun-down, starting with a typical British breakfast of blood pudding, sausage, fried eggs, bacon, baked beans, toast, a bowl of muesli, fruit of the forest, fruit from outside the forest, a pot of tea, and a pot of coffee. Buffets stretching as far as the eye could see, all included in our hotel reservations. What a loophole. I wore waterproof pants for much of the week, so I could stuff all manner of wet food in my pockets for later. These days, you never know where your next meal is coming from, what with all of Trump’s tariffs.
The golf highlights were Royal Lytham and St. Annes and Royal Liverpool (Hoylake). Both courses are on the Open rota, and we had perfect weather as we battered and leaked our way into, and against, the deep pot bunkers that littered their fairways. These bunkers lured our drives into their sandy mouths like a flock of Bedouin hookers, if only the nomadic desert tribes would allow their women to work. I struggled mightily against the face of one such bunker, swinging time and again like your angry father, hoping for release, finding only further darkness as the ball trickled mockingly, ineffectually, to my feet:
Truly majestic.
But we knew that the highlight of our trip would come not on hardened fairways of the seaside links, but on the spongy sod of Anfield. For on Sunday, we had tickets to Liverpool vs. Manchester City. Now, I understand that Barstool has a strange, flirtatious relationship with soccer coverage. We mock it, but then we commission a podcast; we call soccer players pussies, but we’re sad when our team misses the world cup. In all, I think we can agree that soccer, sometimes, is cool. And for fans of the premier league, Liverpool vs. City had all the makings of the match of the year. City, Chelsea, and Liverpool are currently in a 3-way tie at the top of the table, and Liverpool fans are EXCITED as people are calling them legitimate contenders for the first time in a while.
We dropped our golf bags off at the airport hotel and then took a long cab to Anfield. It was driven by a guy who was completely and utterly insane about Liverpool. His name was Mark, and he let me film him as he waxed lyrical about his beloved Reds.
His passion was infectious. We pulled up to the stadium a full four hours ahead of kickoff with a fire raging in our hearts, ready to sing You’ll Never Walk Alone–Liverpool’s anthem–until we, too, were sobbing. Sadly, that’s just too much time to wait around without a proper tailgate scene. Sure, we dipped into a pub for a few pints, but it was fucking freezing on the Merseyside. So we bought matching scarves. Consequently, many in our section thought we were a pliant ginger plaything and his sugar daddy. “Just father, not sugar father!” I clarified. “We don’t bang because we’re related! Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Well, there is. But I don’t personally care!”
Inside, the atmosphere was nuts. The place was bouncing. The three points at stake would send either winner into sole ownership of first place in the league. Our seats were on the Anfield Road stand, behind the goal, right near the visiting fan section. I didn’t know it at the time, but Noah “Thor” Syndergaard and his father were having the exact day that my dad and I were having, except in that Man City section.
Advertisement
I wish I had known. I wish I could have talked to them. I would have said, “Hey Noah, I work at Barstool.” He’d laugh, mention KFC. I’d say “I sit right across from him. I see him every day.” Then our dads would start talking. Probably about charcoal brands or the dangers of fracking–something adults talk about. Meanwhile, Thor and I would be discussing soccer now. He’d ask if I play sports because even through my coat he can tell that I have an athletic build. I’m not as tall as he is, but I’m wider in the shoulders and stronger through the legs. He says “we could use a guy like you next season.” I tell him I don’t play baseball, I’m a lax guy. He says “I can teach you.” I laugh, then spit on his shoes. He takes a swing and misses. I kick him in the dick, just clipping the tip on the upswing. The ushers pull us apart. Everyone wonders why that athlete was fighting that tall dude. They think I’m the athlete. Who could blame them?
Not a humble-brag; just a brag, fuckface. Try lifting so you can defend yourself when your dad comes at you with that mallet putter.
As the players took the field, the entire stadium rose to sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” in one voice. It was awe-inspiring, chilling even. My dad and I had learned the words to try to seem less touristy. Every single man, woman, and child sang in full voice, to honor the team, to rally the players, and to remember the victims of the Hillsborough disaster. To this day, they seek justice for the 96.
In recent years, this fixture has been a high-scoring thrillfest. Sadly, this year, both sides packed it in on defense and played cautiously, like they were playing for a draw. The one big moment came in the 85th minute when Leroy Sané won a penalty for City. Riyad Mahrez stepped up, right in front of us, and skied a penalty over the bar. The place went ballistic.
Advertisement
The game ended, 0-0. Luckily, the atmosphere more than made up for the lack of scoring. As we filed out of the stadium, flowing with the crowd down the streets of Liverpool, it was easier to understand why this team meant so much to these people. They play in the heart of a residential neighborhood, among row-houses that are packed in with such proximity that you sense the entire neighborhood knows the goings-on of everyone else. It’s intimate and supportive, and every weekend, they don their red and channel that support towards their beloved team.
On, on, ya reds!