Liverpool FC And Me

Last updated : 14 November 2011 By Peter DeWolf

We had one television network that would carry the World Cup.  I would of course watch those matches, but that was about it.

I somehow missed Canada’s 1986 appearance in the World Cup, as well as their three losses.  I was 15 at the time, so let’s blame it on girls with high hair and low-cut shirts.  For me missing it, not for Canada’s losses.  Although.

Being Canadian, I grew up watching ice hockey.  Being freakishly tall, I grew up playing basketball.  Local schools didn’t even have football teams.

I saw football as a sport where everyone ran around a lot and rarely scored.  And, frankly, that reminded me a little too much of my own social life at the time.

As I grew older, I became more able to enjoy the subtleties in various sports.  I saw that there was more to these games and matches than goals and dunks and home runs.  Around the same time that I became a nuance aficionado, a Canadian sports network started carrying Sky Sports News (the late edition) live every night at 8 pm.

Aimless channel-flipping landed me there one night.  Planning landed me there almost every night after.

I loved the highlights.  I loved the stories.  I loved the characters.  I loved Millie Clode.

I found some channels on my satellite dish that carried football games from around the world.  And I ordered even more channels.

I watched football matches from Italy.  I watched football games from Spain.  I watched football matches from Germany.  I watched football matches from Peru.

I enjoyed them all, but they didn’t suck me in.

Then I watched some games from England.

I was hooked.  I knew immediately it was something I wanted to follow more closely.

Hard tackles.  Frenetic pace.  This was definitely a sport, and league, for me.

I probably shouldn’t have been completely surprised.  Most of my DNA has roots in the UK.  I grew up watching Fawlty Towers with my dad.  And I have the musical tastes, surly attitude, and bushy eye brows of a long-lost Gallagher brother.

So it was, and is, English football for me.  But I know that to really enjoy a sport, you have to cheer for one team above all others.  I’m a born supporter.  I can’t watch sports as a passive observer.  I need good guys and bad guys.  I need to be buoyed by victories and distraught over defeats.

By this point, I had a satellite dish and access to four or five Premier League games a week.  I began trying to figure out what team fit me best.

I watched a Man United match.  They didn’t feel right to me.  I immediately felt like I should hate them.  I felt like I was watching the evil empire at work.

I watched a Wolverhampton Wanderers match.  My last name is DeWolf.  Hmmm.  (What?  I just wanted to feel like I belonged.)  Maybe I could grow to appreciate orange-ish kits?

A friend of mine had just moved from Australia to London and was immersing himself in all things English football.  We discussed all the teams.  What their fans were like.  What their owners were like.  Even their celebrity fans.  We spent many hours doing this.

I was getting discouraged in my search.  I was complaining to that friend one Saturday as I was tuning into a Liverpool match.

And then I saw Stevie G. receive a pass, streak by defenders outside the box, and unleash a curling blast.

Top corner.

I had no idea what I had just seen.

Neither did the keeper.

I watched the replay four times.

I noticed the hair standing up on my arms.

I laughed as I realized that I had been going about it all wrong.

You can’t use logic to pick a team.  You feel it.  Or you don’t.

I began reading everything I could about Liverpool.

And it felt right.  The triumphs.  The tragedies.  The city.  The spirit.

This was my team.

I’ve watched every Liverpool match humanly possible since.  I’ve gotten up insanely early on weekends.  (Thank you, timezones.)  I’ve skipped out of work on weekday afternoons to see Liverpool face teams with names I’ve never heard before, from places I only vaguely knew existed.  (The skipping out on work thing stays just between us, cool?)

And it’s been frustrating and joyous and depressing and awesome.

Maybe I don’t have geographic ties to my team.

Maybe I don’t have a family history of supporting my team.

But when Suarez scores, I leap off my couch.

When we give up on a late deciding goal and take a single point instead of three, I feel completely demoralized.

And that’s what it’s all about.

Make no mistake, Liverpool’s my team.

And I couldn’t be prouder.

 

Follow Peter on Twitter @peterdewolf

 

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