Check the tickets in my wallet,
Then swig my cup of tea,
7.30 in the morning,
One game from Wembley.
Out the door and on the street,
Off to meet the boys,
To sing the songs we love to sing,
When we fill the ground with noise.
The coach pulls up and we all pile on,
Belly full of butterflies,
Then off to Sheffield we all go,
The FA Cup our prize.
9.00am and the songs have started,
I talk about the game,
To a young lad that’s sat next to me,
I didn’t catch his name.
The journeys taking hours,
And we cross the Pennine hills,
But my mind drifts off to Hillsborough,
As I dream of Beardsley’s skills.
“My favourite players Aldo”
Says the boy sat next to me,
His eyes full of excitement,
And his words are filled with glee.
“I’m meeting me mate when I get to the ground”
“He’s travelling up by train”
“I’ll see you back here on the coach”
“When we’ve beaten Forest again”.
The coach pulled up and off he went,
Going to meet his friend,
I check my ticket once again,
‘THE LEPPINGS LANE END’.
It’s getting near to kick off,
And I’m getting close to the ground,
But nobody seems to be moving,
And I’m stuck tight in this crowd.
I’m just about starting to panic,
Then a bizzie opens a gate,
A red tide moves down a tunnel,
Moving closer to their fate.
I remember clearly that tunnel,
And the light that shone at the end,
And as I think back to that fateful day,
I still can’t comprehend.
That the coppers called us vandals,
And drunken loutish liars,
And the media fed us spite and hate,
When compassion was required.
But back to that day and the things I saw,
Unfold before my eyes,
The sight of grown men screaming
As the air was filled with cries.
But I was one of the lucky ones,
Because I came back alive,
I watched heroes in scarves down on the pitch,
Trying helplessly to revive –
Their friends their family and strangers,
Who’d all come to watch a game,
But their lives were crushed that fateful day,
On a terrace called Leppings Lane.
The memories still haunt me,
Every time I go to sleep,
But there is one memory that gets me,
And always makes me weep.
Back on the coach with my head on the glass,
I remember my heart skipped a beat,
When I turned to the young lad next to me,
And I noticed his empty seat.
There were 96 empty seats that day,
96 friends that we’ve lost,
And while Kelvin counted his pennies,
The families counted the cost.
So next time you are at Anfield,
Visit the eternal flame,
Feel the stone cold marble,
And touch a person’s name.
And whilst you say a silent prayer,
And your dreams are tossed and blown,
Remember those 96 empty seats,
That must never walk alone.