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By Brian Reade

Fusing the blind ardour of a lifelong supporter with the chilly eye of an award-winning journalist, this can be an up-close and private view of the complete sleek period of Britain's such a lot winning soccer membership. From their first ever FA Cup win in 1965 to the Champions League defeat in Athens in 2007, this evaluate takes at the notable tales at the back of the forty eight trophies Liverpool has received. Highlighting the memorable nights that propelled the membership to 5 ecu Cups, 3 UEFA Cups, 12 titles, and numerous household cup triumphs, this account additionally discusses their sour mess ups, the tragic mess ups in Sheffield and Brussels, and the barren years of the past due 60s and the 90s.

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Thank Christ for that. I hate rugby. I remember in the air force, turning up at a new post in Wales and asking for a football. ’ He burst into a raucous laugh and began to squeeze an imaginary oval ball into a round shape. ’ I join in the laughter and he knocks me on the arm and says for a third time: ‘I’ll squeeze it intee a fitball. Christ, it’s funny what things come back to you. ’ Let’s get this straight here. I should be at school, battling to stay awake through double economics. Instead I’m joshing away with Bill Shankly at Melwood, like a groom and his best man preparing to rip up the town on a stag night.

He’d won my heart and I had to do the decent thing. I had to finish with The Saint. Actually, like most splits, we’d been growing apart for a while. Tony Hateley had been bought to partner Hunt up front, and St John was switched from number 9 to number 10. From being a 20 goals-a-season man to half-a-dozen. He was still a vital team player, but a kid needs more than that from a hero. He needs a goalscorer. He needs to see his man producing a little bit of magic that flummoxes a defence, before bursting the net and running to the crowd to soak in the mass adulation.

I may have sagged off from a Christian Brothers school for the afternoon but I’d learned a lesson the men in frocks could never teach me. For every heartless shit out there, there’s a Good Samaritan. And this one had given me a derby ticket for the Kop, and entrance to one of the most memorable games I would ever see. Everton were champions and playing like it. The Horse (Joe Royle) and the Rat (Alan Whittle) had put them 2–0 up with 20 minutes to go. Misery stared me in the face as well as a surrounding knot of Evertonians on the outer edges of the Kop (I was told to keep away from the middle sections as they were feudal plots handed down by fathers).

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