LFC in CLT by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Finally. Finally, it was August 2nd (2014). It was the Saturday when the legendary EPL (English Premier League) titan Liverpool would be playing in our city (Charlotte), on our field (Bank of America Stadium), or pitch as they say across the pond, against Serie A (the top league in Italy) powerhouse AC Milan.

We, Agents 32 (Monique, my wife), 33 (me) and 666 (my provocative soccer-playing son) had got hooked on LFC (Liverpool Football Club) while watching them play on NBCSN on Saturday and Sunday mornings the previous season. Their attacking style and raucous, ultra-passionate Anfield fans had won us over. This would be our EPL team through thick and thin.

I had bought tickets for the three of us online several months in advance, as I feared the match might sell out. Once I received the e-mail from the ticketing agency, I printed the attachments (the tickets) and left the sheets of paper in the tray, where they proceeded to collect dust. This morning at 9:47 AM I brushed them off and counted to make sure that I had all three of them.

“Well, today is the big day, guys,” I announced to my two sleepyheads.

“Dad, do you think that I don’t know that?!” My son gave me a ‘duh’ facial expression.

“I’m so excited to go in that stadium and see Liverpool play, hon,” my wife said.

After lunch we donned our Liverpool shirts, gathered our things and loaded the Kia. The six-mile drive to our secret free-parking area (eight tenths of a mile southeast of the stadium) went off without a hitch or a post.

We disembarked and walked to Bank of America Plaza for some pre-game refreshments. A parade of people in red were walking south on Tryon Street, chanting their way towards the stadium. They were Liverpool fans.

I had anticipated a lot of noisy LFC supporters, but my wife and son were in total awe with mouths agape. I was a bit surprised, too. The loud, spirited, jubilant procession continued with no end in sight.

“Hon, how long is that line?” my wife asked.

“I think it will be nonstop for the next hour, Agent 32” Agent 32? He’s already recording.

“Really?!” my son shouted.

“Yeah, Agent 666. [He demanded this nefarious agent number over my fervent protestations.] Liverpool has a global fanbase. There are people in Charlotte today from all over North America, and probably a sizeable contingent from northwestern England.” 

“They are really filing in now, 33.” Great. My wife has already picked up on my psecret psociety recording and is calling me Agent 33. Most excellent.

“Let’s go now!” my son yelled as he jumped out of his chair.  “I want to chant with them. We’re wasting time just sitting here! Let’s not let the LFC parade pass by without us.”

“Ok, ok, ok. Just give us a few seconds.” I was trying to stall my eager-to-go son for a minute.

My wife and I quickly gulped down our soft drinks. Then we got up and walked over to Tryon Street and merged into the Red Sea march.

The first chant we heard was an easy one-worder (the pitch just alternated from high to low). LIVERPOOL, Liverpool, LIVERPOOL, Liverpool …

Next, we heard the one about the famous Liverpool defender Jamie Carragher. It was being sung to The Beatles Yellow Submarine melody. And number one is Carragher, and number 2 is Carragher, and number 3 is Carragher, and number 4 is Carragher, Carragher! We all dream of a team of Carraghers …

But then, not surprisingly, the chants started to attack rival Premier League teams. Arsenal got shelled first. Same old Arsenal, always cheating …

Chelsea got an off-color blast next. F::ck off Chelsea FC, you aint got no history …

And, as we turned right onto Stonewall Street to close in on the stadium, looming just ahead, the most vulgar chant commenced. All Manchester is full of sh:t …

“Agent 666, pretend like you didn’t hear that,” I said.

“I heard it, dad!”

Then a burgundy-colored SUV pulled up next to us Reds fans. A black-haired, 30-something, Caucasian lady, sporting an AC Milan topper, gave a thumbs-down. Her scream: “Liverpool sucks!” Oh, my. This should get interesting.

Several Liverpool fans immediately ran up to her open window. I feared that something ugly was getting ready to transpire, and began to wonder if this was the start of a fracas that might end up involving CMPD (Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department). But, happily, just three seconds later everyone was laughing.

Then, four minutes later, we were getting the metal detector treatment at the stadium’s east gate. Once inside the colosseum, my son and wife invariably searched out a souvenir stand. How much will this cost?

The first team-apparel booth had a line that was at least a half-hour long. We passed on it. Jeez. Hope they’re all not so crowded.

The second booth had just two people in line. This is more like it.

“Here we go, guys,” I said. “Hardly any line here. Tell me what you like.”

We looked at the items for sale, pinned to the back wall, and noticed that there was no LFC gear.

“No Liverpool stuff here, dad.”

“Oops, wrong line,” I said. “This is an AC Milan booth. That’s why the line is so short.”

We all laughed. Even the African American female counter clerk had a chuckle.

“Uh, let’s try upstairs,” I suggested.

“Ok, 33, lead the way,” my wife said. 

We took a pair of the newly installed escalators up to the 500 level (my wife and I on one; my son on the other one, making silly faces at us).

We quickly found a Liverpool FC table with a queue that was only ten deep. My wife got a red LFC cap and my son got a YNWA (You’ll Never Walk Alone) red scarf. I settled for an eight-cubic-inch, translucent box of archetypal Liverpool August weather: cool gray clouds.

We discovered our seats in section 546 and sat down, watching the stadium incrementally fill. Fans in LFC jerseys took their seats in front of us. Famous Liverpool last names stared back at us. GERRARD | STURRIDGE | SUAREZ | OWEN | RUSH | FOWLER | STERLING The LFC Hall of Fame here.

My wife began to scan the stadium. “Wow, this is a big stadium, Agent 33. How many people can it hold?”

“Around 73,000, I think.”

“Did this game sell out, dad?” 

“It came close. I think the total attendance will come in around 70,000. [The attendance would later be announced as 69,364.] They promoted it fairly well.”

I studied the jersey colors of the fans. The crowd had to be 80% or more for Liverpool; it was essentially a home game for the mighty Reds. This would be confirmed during the starting lineup announcements, as thunderous applause greeted the team from Merseyside. It was also evident during the singing of Liverpool’s heartfelt anthem: You’ll Never Walk Alone.

Once the game started, it didn’t take long for the Reds to score. In the 16th minute, Welshman Joe Allen stole the ball and broke into the box. His shot hit the left post and rebounded to Raheem Sterling, who took a shot. AC Milan goaltender Christian Abbiati blocked it, but couldn’t hold it. The soft rebound came back to Allen’s right foot, who didn’t miss this time. One-nil for Liverpool. This would be the halftime score.

In the second half, AC Milan pressed forward and tried to equalize, but left themselves exposed on the back late in the game. In the 89th minute, Suso passed to a charging Coutinho on the left flank, who passed it back to him. His sly, low, curling shot made it two-nil, and that’s how it would end.

It was a wonderful, majestic, unforgettable night. The Liverpool team would do a slow victory lap while their song – the Gerry and the Pacemakers version – was replayed over the stadium speakers, which were just above our heads. Walk on, walk on / With hope in your heart / And you’ll never walk alone / You’ll never walk alone

“Thanks, dad. That was freaking awesome!”

“Thanks so much, honey ... I mean Agent 33,” my wife added.

“You are most welcome. Glad we could do it. I knew you guys would like this.”

“When does Liverpool play again in Charlotte, dad?”

“Not sure, 666.”

“I hope they come back every summer!” my wife shouted.

“Me, too, Agent 32.”

“Dad, why are you calling us by our agent numbers? Is this really psecret psociety material?”

“Well, remember how it looked like there would be a violent thunderstorm before we came to the game?”

“Yes,” my son conjunctively answered.

“Well, by releasing the contents of that box of Anfield atmosphere, I was able to keep those lightning zappers in South Carolina. Notice how the sky stayed overcast with only a few lonely raindrops.”

“Dad, you are stretching the truth again.”

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