Hatred

"Probably just can't afford it anymore. He's always wanted to sell Liverpool, to find the club an owner who truly loves it." Sarah pursed her lips. "The main thing is, Liverpool never had the business sense Manchester United had. Back in the nineties football started turning into a commodity—broadcast fees, sponsorships, merchandise, all of it money-makers. Manchester United seized the chance and built up their commercial side. We were behind by more than just a step." "In that decade we won the FA Cup and the League Cup too, and we played beautiful football. But it felt like after Cantona went to Manchester United, he instilled a champion's mentality there and set it going, and it made quite a few fans fall for United completely. Meanwhile we were still stuck in old Liverpool's rhythm, and slowly we fell behind." "Actually, when you get right down to it, it wasn't just the club's problem. Back then, the city of Liverpool itself was stuck in the mire." Sarah's gaze drifted into the distance, as if remembering her childhood days. "The neoliberal restructuring after Thatcher came to power was fatal for an old port and heavy-industry city like Liverpool. On top of that, the government stopped allocating a budget to Liverpool and forced the city to transform on its own. Back then the unemployment rate was terrifyingly high—the papers said it was about to top thirty percent." "The docks closed, factories went under one after another, and a lot of people couldn't stay. They packed up their families and ran off to London, off to North America. Liverpudlians are scattered all over the world now. It wasn't that they wanted to leave; it was that they truly couldn't make a living right at their own doorstep." "And this city was bound up with politics by its very nature." She smiled bitterly. "In 1990 I was only seven, and at school I sang songs cursing Mrs. Thatcher with my classmates. Why? Because she held grudges. Liverpool was the city that opposed her the hardest, and she took her revenge just as hard—every household cursed her. Thinking about it now, it really is absurd. Where would you find a seven-year-old who makes up songs to curse the Prime Minister? These days, what seven-year-old even knows who Tony Blair is?" Whenever Mrs. Thatcher came up, she was visibly sore about it. Du An also knew that Liverpudlians didn't like Mrs. Thatcher. Mason had cursed her at home more than once or twice. He had not the slightest doubt that if one day Mrs. Thatcher were to die— Liverpudlians wouldn't merely withhold their sympathy; they would celebrate. From the Liverpool history books at Kirkby, he'd seen how Mrs. Thatcher had targeted Liverpool football at every turn too— the Heysel disaster: Thatcher formed a war cabinet and pushed for all English clubs to withdraw from European competitions, with Liverpool singled out for a seven-year ban, which cut Liverpool's late-seventies, early-eighties European dynasty clean in half. As for the Hillsborough disaster, she met with the Chief Constable the day after it happened, and the cabinet refused to make the investigation files public—right down to this day. The reason given was that releasing them would compromise ministers' candid deliberations. In truth, Liverpool fans all understood—her core view was simply that the police were her own people, and the fans were all hooligans. But Du An listened quietly and didn't cut in. On a rainy day the shop was quiet to begin with. The rain tapped against the glass windows, and even time seemed to slow along with it. "So let me tell you something, and I hope you'll take it to heart." Sarah suddenly turned to look at him, her expression serious. "No matter how well you play, don't ever set aside your studies. Learn more, understand more—that's the only way you'll be able to tell which of the things those people up on the stage say are true, and which are meant to fool you." "I've seen too many players who could do nothing but play football—all they did was drink and drift through life, until they became empty shells that only knew how to run and kick a ball. I don't want you to end up like that." Sarah truly regarded Du An as a little brother, and that was the only reason she was willing to speak these words straight from the heart. She had been to university, and she understood the power of knowledge. Du An nodded and silently took the words to heart. Sarah suddenly clapped a hand to her forehead. "Oh—I almost forgot the main thing!" She bent down, pulled open the drawer under the counter, and fished out an envelope, holding it out to Du An. "A kid from over in the L5 postcode district asked someone to bring this to Liam, said to pass it on to you. None of us opened it. Take a look." "For me?" Du An took the envelope. "Who's it from?" "His name's Nathan Black." Sarah thought for a moment. "Liam said he's one of the kids you coached when you went to the community last time." Nathan Black. Du An immediately recalled that small, skinny boy in a red football shirt several sizes too big for him, who'd practiced trapping the ball a dozen times without getting it right—and the more anxious he got, the worse he played, until he'd nearly cried. "Go on, open it." Sarah leaned in, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Du An tore open the envelope and pulled out a sheet of letter paper with a little football drawn on it. The handwriting was very childish, the letters crooked and uneven, with several places crossed out and rewritten. Even so, there were still misspelled words. "Dear Brother Du An: Hello. You haven't come to teach us football for such a long time. I'm a little sad. I practice trapping the ball in the yard every day now, and I can already trap it five times in a row without it flying away! Mum says I've improved a lot. I'm saving up my pocket money. I already have three pounds and twenty-seven pence. Once I've saved enough for a ticket, I'll come to Anfeild to watch you play. You have to play well and become the gretest football star of all. I'll always support you. Nathan Black" In the bottom-right corner of the paper he'd also drawn a wobbly little figure in a red football shirt, holding up a round football. Du An looked at it, and the corners of his mouth curved up slightly without his realizing it. He carefully folded the letter, put it back in the envelope, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat to make sure the rain wouldn't soak it. Sarah watched him carefully stow the letter in his inner pocket. She didn't offer any of those polite platitudes about not letting a young fan down. She just gently patted his shoulder. "Play well." That one line was enough. At midday the shop wasn't busy, and the three of them gathered behind the counter to eat fish and chips. Jack's eyes were bright—almost alarmingly so. Nibbling on a piece of fish, he talked to Du An about his article, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. "The more I write, the more I feel that football is so much more than just winning or losing in those ninety minutes on the pitch." "The fans off the pitch, the pubs in the back alleys, the feeling of a whole city pulling together into one because of a single team—that's what's truly moving. Look at the people in our shop: some have been campaigning for Hillsborough for over ten years, some ride the bus half an hour every week just to buy a scarf. What they're buying isn't really a piece of merchandise at all—it's a shared hope, something they all hold dear." Du An held his hot tea and listened earnestly. Ever since coming to HJC, and the more he came to know Liverpool, he'd realized this too. The next day, when Du An came to the shop again, Jack pushed a thick envelope across to him. "Five hundred pounds—the licensing fee we agreed on. Take it." Jack scratched his head. "I reckon the article will be finished revising next month. I'm planning to submit it to the Liverpool Echo's supplement. Whether it passes review, when it'll run—I can't say for sure. I'll give it my best shot first." Du An didn't decline. He put the envelope away. The days flew by. In the blink of an eye, it was December 23rd. A Saturday. This year Liverpool hadn't gotten any snow, sure enough, but the rain had barely let up. The fine, pattering drizzle left a layer of mist over Kirkby, and the turf was slippery underfoot. Du An and the others braved the rain to warm up for today's match.