Living up to its fabled buzz, the Kop roared and rose
even before kick-off. Down in the main stand
I watched; John Barnes adjusting his captain’s band
on the hallowed turf. Waves of red in rows
and rows – a kid in that season’s kit, I swelled
with a kind of borrowed pride, belonging
without belonging; my dad and brother craning
to see McManaman darting, how Fowler propelled
strike after strike.