Johannesburg – “They took on the wrong city. They took on the wrong moms.” Those dozen words may seem completely out of place in football, but they have been everything to do with the beautiful game for 27 long, painful years, as one of football’s greatest cities tried to remove an assault on its moral fibre.
The city of Liverpool has long campaigned and maintained that it was through no fault of their incredible fans that April 15, 1989, is marked as a black day in British history. For decades, those who were there, those who were supposed to be there, and all those who lost someone on that fateful day, have argued that officials were wrong to pin the blame on Liverpool’s fans.
The Reds’ faithful are known for their combustible, crackling nature. On any given European night, The Kop becomes an Everest, a cacophony of song, and soul and ceremony. They will goals in with their passion, and repel startled foes with the furnace of their voices.
Football means everything to them, and then some. In a city rich in cultural history, the Liver bird sits atop on the list of priorities on Merseyside. Unless you’re a blue, in which case getting one over the bird is the main point of call. Only in the search for justice for the 96 that departed suddenly, terribly, on that grim afternoon, Liverpool has been united as one.
Some have died fighting the cause, vehemently arguing that Hillsborough was not their fault, but rather down to officials who underestimated the weight of the occasion. Newspapers that leapt to conclusions were boycotted; The Sun is considered a last resort for bog roll in Liverpool, in retaliation for the manner it handled the reporting of the tragedy.
Their front page preyed on all the snide stereotypes of the Scousers, claiming they had mugged the pockets of the unconscious, urinated on cops and were solely to blame for the stampede. It was as far off the mark as a Steven Gerrard cross-field ball was unerring.
The publication has since apologised, but the damage was long done. It is irreparable, because it was an insincere stain on the collective character of thousands of people whose main drive in life is Saturday afternoon, when they watch their beloved Reds, and temporarily forget their lot in life.
This week, justice for the 96, and the countless others who campaigned in their honour, was finally served. It was met with tears, not of joy, but of belated relief and renewed regret. Relief that the world finally knew the real truth, but regret that it can never bring back sons and daughters, fathers who didn’t come home with Saturday supper.
But, led by an army of fearless mothers, that bedrock of Scouse hardship, the search for justice has been finally rewarded. The football world has noted the official pardon on Liverpool, and the scenes at Villarreal on Thursday were a touch of class.
Football may be a clatter of cleats and cultures, but it has a conscience, and it is well aware of its cathedrals. Anfield is one of those hallowed grounds, and its team and shirt a symbol of that fervent religion.
Some tireless souls have passed on while fighting for this week’s moment of clarity but they, like the 96, will never be forgotten.
Of all the tributes, one of the most iconic images in respect of the fallen 96 is an Everton mascot wearing the number 9, and a Liverpool little ’un with the number 6, standing hand in hand, tears in unison.
The two clubs may tear into each other at every Merseyside derby, but for every other day of the year, they are one, thriving city.
Hillsborough hurt football as a whole, but it cut a city deep. This week, those mothers who devoted their lives to justice got their apology, belated though. Now their wounds can maybe finally start healing.