6am, September 1st, 2015. A head full of thoughts had me up early. My life as a full-time writer was beginning. I remember wondering what to call myself. An author? A writer? A storyteller? A translator of meaning? Unemployed? The rest of the house lay silently in sleep.
Confucius said, “They must often change, who would be constant in happiness or wisdom”. For nearly 30 years my work as an accountant, and then an investment adviser, saw me negotiate the early morning commutes, late office evenings and holidays interrupted by work deadlines that couldn’t wait. A global brief brought ridiculous amounts of travel with all the related stresses. Yet it also delivered fascinating insights.
I experienced first-hand the inner workings of businesses as diverse as bloodstock, wine cultivation, professional rugby, aviation and plain old bricks and mortar property. I discovered things I might never have learned otherwise. Stallions often bite the necks, gouging the flesh, of the hundred or so fillies whom they cover each year. In the vineyard, if one can afford to remove every third vine, then additional sunlight will caress those precious grapes and the reward will come in the taste and the price. Salary caps work and keep rugby clubs alive but there are countless “off the books” ways to reward star players and keep them motivated. Wing tips can save airlines 4 per cent or more on their fuel bills. Property prices go up, and down. Now all of this was behind me, but much of it had informed and developed my thought processes. Endless hours in myriad airports, offices, coffee shops and at dinner tables had honed my skills of observance.
I wanted to write a book from the age of 10. As a child I read voraciously. In secondary school, when my inspirational English teacher suggested “I had talent”, I believed her, I didn’t doubt it, not fully. As a young man I told my friends stories in the pub that I thought could be transformed into books. They listened, encouraged. Over the next 20 years, in the stolen hours, I wrote my first novel; a tale that explored the traversing lives of strangers, irreversible events and tragic loss. Then I re-wrote. Edited once, twice, five times. At last the time had come to deliver and send it out into the world. No wonder I hadn’t slept, I was excited about the new journey that lay ahead. Then the phone rang.
Good news doesn’t arrive at 6am. My eldest brother Eugene had passed away during the night. Heart attack. Only 52. The same age as my father when he died nearly 30 years earlier. The funeral came and went, and a new idea formed in my mind. As a brother, Eugene could do no wrong in my eyes. He was a role model to look up to. A perfectionist. Eugene had been responsible for instilling within me a love for Liverpool Football Club. When we chatted, invariably football was the opener, leaving the door ajar for weightier subject matters to creep through.
My father turned Eugene to the red side, having laboured for a time as a welder in the port city to where so many Irish have been drawn down the centuries. A city where up to half of the inhabitants can claim Irish ancestry. In the past the masses were fleeing famine or searching for a brighter future. Many had sights set on America, but never made it further than across the Irish Sea. Today, more often than not, they travel to support the red shirts that adorn the hallowed turf of Anfield, Liverpool’s home ground. Despite the losses, life moved on and our family tree kept growing. Now I was passing this same inter-generational baton down to my son. Was today’s game worth bestowing?
Football had changed through the years. For the good? Probably not. Much? Dramatically. These days it is dripping in money. Countries can acquire a club, any club and through no more smarts than the injection of billions of dollars, success follows. I grew up listening to stories of the transformational football men, the masters of football. Legends such as Liverpool’s Godfather Shankly, United’s Busby and Celtic’s Stein. I witnessed the mercurial feats of Bob Paisley, Brian Clough and then, unfortunately, Alex Ferguson. Back then, teams were built over many seasons, tweaked, altered, perfected. Then rebuilt. These days, success could be acquired with immediate effect, if your given club’s owner had enough money. Was this the game that I adored? Was this my son’s inheritance?
So, maybe rashly, I decided my novel would have to wait, this story needed documenting. Thorny questions needed answering. Where to next for our beloved Liverpool? For the game at large? My son and I set out on a road trip with our Reds, the mission to visit every Premier League club, to live and breathe the essence of these institutions, whilst examining the culture, people and communities that shaped them.
Liverpool FC had reached their 125th anniversary. They too had changed. After an era of domestic and European domination, drought set in. The domestic title had not been lifted for over a quarter of a century. Bill Shankly’s maxim was that Liverpool “exists to win trophies”. Many wondered did this still hold true, what these days did the Reds stand for? All the familiar pillars had gone.
For most of its history it had been owned locally, by men who worked for the betterment of both the club and community. Founder John Houlding had acted as mayor of Liverpool. His colleague, Dubliner Patrick Barclay, suggested to him to use the name Liverpool FC and it was Barclay who would become the club’s first manager. A green hue ran through the red blood from the very beginning.
Since 2010, American Investors have taken the ownership reins. The most recent variety are the Fenway Sports Group. The same guys who ended the 86-year drought of Baseball’s Boston Red Sox back in their homeland. Could they repeat the miracle this side of the Atlantic? Yet these were hedge fund men, masters of the arbitrage. Men who’d made their money buying low and selling high. Financial vampires. How would they shape the Reds’ future? Was it only about the money? Proclamations resounded that “they came to win” but the trophy cabinet still lay bare. We prayed for a noble outlook but Liverpool were in danger of losing their soul.
Then a chink of hope for the doubters. A new charismatic manager arrived to take charge, his passion and exuberance lifting the hearts of Reds worldwide. “Believe,” he preached. Echoes of Shankly abounded, but the task of rebuilding would prove just as hard now as it did then. Could Klopp succeed where a long list had failed? Was he the saviour the Reds had been praying for? Only time would tell.
The stories of these footballing institutions and men, of the generations of families and their communities that shaped them, these musings on what the future might hold, slowly welded together to form my first completed book.
Lost? Liverpool FC and English Football at the Crossroads by Anthony Carragher is published by Troubador and is available now
