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Liverpool seduce New York

By Paul Angelo Sampson ⋅ May 12, 2007 ⋅  Print This Post ⋅ Post a comment

When I moved to New York in January 2005 I left behind many things that were exceptionally close to my heart. Emotional leaving parties with friends were trumped by tearful farewells to extended family not to mention my mother Irene, my father Panos, my sister Candy and the love of my life, Liverpool Football Club.

On the one hand a new world awaited, one revelled in by Sinatra and Lennon before me. On the other, the support system I’d leaned on so heavily all my life would now be five thousand miles away. Uprooting from everything I knew and detaching myself from my ontological security was nothing short of a wrench.

Upon landing in New York, I was quickly ferried to the apartment my new job had arranged for me in the East Village of Manhattan, 11th Street between Avenue B and C to be precise. An area once famed for its heroine abuse, prostitution and dereliction was now my new home.

Much like Angel or Islington in my previous hometown, the East Village is now very much on the up. Boutique handbag stores stand side by side with vintage clothes shops and exposed brick walled fusion cuisine eateries. No description of the East Village, however, would be complete without mentioning the plethora of bars (and rats) that pepper it’s every turn and it was in one of these that I found solace.

Shockingly, it was not at the bottom of a bottle, not yet anyway, but upon realising that one highly unassuming Irish bar not one hundred metres from my new, rusting front door was in fact the LFC New York Supporters Club. The love of my life had followed me across the Atlantic.

Next, I did what all star-crossed lovers do upon a joyful and protracted reunion… I ordered a pint of fine European ale and asked for the season’s fixture list. 11th Street Bar not only shows every single Liverpool game (even the ones shown at 7:30am over here, thank you Mr Scudamore) but it is overflowing with Liverpool memorabilia signed by Anfield legends past and present. Come game day it thrives with Scouse wit and banter and all the passion and song of the terraces. The gods had smiled on me and I think I even noticed one of them give me a wink.

By May of that year the bar had assumed an altogether different level of import given the miraculous achievements of Rafael Benitez and his unlikely lads. Istanbul was out of reach given the new job and the logistics that were involved. 11th St Bar it was, and how it delivered that fateful night. Packed to the rafters with red shirts, ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ on repeat to fade and the boys bringing it home on the pitch. ‘Little Anfield’, for numerous nights only.

It was with great relish, then, that I awaited kick off on Tuesday last, fully intent on making my way down the 39 blocks south and 9 East from office to spiritual home from home. A place where I could nestle my head in the bosom of the love provided by a hundred and fifty or so sweaty, merry men and women all with one common dream. Then the phone rang.

I was on a call in the office until ten minutes before kick off. It would take me thirty in the traffic to get there. After a short stint spent cursing my life, my luck, my work, my clients and of course the opposition manager (capricious, I know, but it felt right at the time) I rushed down to street level and located the nearest place showing the game.

‘The House of Brews’ was empty. Two lonely souls sat mute at the bar as Dave Matthews floated over the airwaves. As I looked around in hurried desperation, panicked and out of breath, a voice came to my rescue. “Soccer game?” asked the barmaid. “Abso-bloody-lutely”. I was led to the back of the bar where I was handed a remote control and the sole plasma screen was switched on for my benefit. The teams were in the tunnel, the mascots looked tiny. I was alone.

My phone would not stop screaming at me “Where are you? We’ve got your seat saved!” “You coming?” “We’re at the back, hurry, it’s rammed!” I couldn’t bring myself to respond. My loneliness was being compounded. No matter! The whistle blew and my attentions were turned. As minutes rolled by the staff began to question the sanity of the lone Englishman at the back, two feet from a screen talking to himself and jumping up and down intermittently.

When Agger scored I screamed. I screamed, leapt to my feet and punched the air knocking my drink to the floor in the process. Shame that the spilled drink is what embarrassed me. Then something special took place, or rather began to take place. On thirty five minutes an American couple in their 30’s walked in asking if Chelsea were winning. Upon my pointing out the score, the man, Jason, reveals in a broad NY accent that he is actually an Arsenal fan but wanted Chelsea to win because they too were a London side. There he was saying this to me, a Londoner, in NY, supporting Liverpool. Class began.

A brief history of the Reds coupled with some disparaging shots at Chelsea, my over enthusiasm for Rafa’s boys and my highlighting the lyrics to various terrace chants soon turned these sweet and malleable Yanks in to Reds. “You know what Paul, I love that you love it so much. We want Liverpool now!” At half time four Swedes walked in and sat down near us in the back section. “You know you can’t sit here unless you support Liverpool, right?” asks Jason, the American. “OK” they replied in unison. Then we were seven.

By the time the second half had started another American couple and three Scotsmen had joined us. The Swedes informed the new Americans of their new loyalties, they in turn informed the Scots and on and on we went until the room was packed with thirty people all screaming for our boys as if they had been Reds all their lives. I was not alone.

Not only did I now have company, they were Liverpool fans; Liverpool fans that could see as clearly as I that we were the light and our opposition the dark. When I yelped ‘ooohh’ so did they. When I jumped up holding my head it was as if I was in a room of mirrors. When Kuyt scored we yelled and we screamed, when we saw the linesman’s flag we consoled each other. People near the front of the bar came to see what was happening and the bar staff put the game on in the front for them also.

You get the picture. The point is this; whilst it is easy for me to sit here and overplay my role in this significant event, I realised by the end of the game that something larger than I had been at work. Granted, I was the master on duty at the time and led the class as a conductor might but, as the saying goes, ‘You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make it drink’. It wasn’t me, It was the love of my life. Beautiful, flirtatious, enticing, thrilling and, ultimately, so very, very pleasurable, she had wooed everyone in the room. And more like the host of a Swingers party than a jealous boyfriend, I was happy that they had all fallen for her charms, ecstatic in fact.

OK, so I had to endure some “Hi 5’s” and the odd chant of “D-Fence, D-Fence!” but these were the minutia in one large organic process and they were not about to ruin my day.

There is no doubt that Liverpool Football Club is, and always will be, the club of the people, the fans and neutrals alike and is unparalleled in her ability to enthral and inspire. This “lonely” afternoon turned out to be far more rewarding than I could ever have hoped for from a football match alone. What happened was so much more eventful than the 120 minutes on the turf. ‘She’ happened. ‘She’ did it again. ‘She’ – the love of my life. I cannot wait for our next date. Though I admit it will be back at the 11th St Bar, same as 2005. Superstition is a funny thing.

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