The Long and Winding Road to Anfield, Part 2: Sorted

When the long-anticipated match day finally arrived, I felt some trepidation about going to Liverpool. I knew I was likely to find myself so close but yet so far, at Anfield but without a ticket. Anticipating this possible disappointment made me reluctant to go all the way to Liverpool only to experience it. But I'd already booked my train and flight, so I had no choice but to try my luck.

I arrived at Anfield by noon and went straight to the ticket office to see if there had been any returns. I found a man wearing a bright orange reflective jacket near the sales windows and queried him about a ticket. He chuckled and shook his head. "I'd suggest you snuggle up with a pint and watch it on the telly. Sorry luv." With the legitimate option gone, I went back outside the grounds to see if any ticket touts were offering reasonable prices. They weren't; one asked for £100 and one wanted £80. After turning them both down, I realised that I didn't have any cash with which to pay them even if I'd wanted to.

I set off to find an ATM, which proved rather difficult. I didn't think to check at the newsagent shops right over the road and instead went looking for a hole-in-the-wall or bank. I plodded down a steep hill, lugging everything I'd packed for my four-day trip in my messenger bag. After searching for 20 or 25 minutes, I finally found a gas station that offered a cash machine. I was tempted to boycott it on the grounds of the fee it charged, but my options were slim. I took out some money and lugged myself and my bag back up the hill. This is not going well at all, I thought.

Things appeared to have grown even worse by the time I returned to the grounds. The few people selling extra tickets had been replaced by people wanting to buy tickets. Not knowing what else to do, I went to the official shop in an attempt to kill some of the four hours that remained before kick-off (and to buy some Liverpool kit, of course). When I was finished there, I went to check the tout situation on the Anfield Road side of the stadium. Nobody. Probably out of sheer desperation, I decided to make a last-ditch effort at the ticket office. Maybe someone had returned a ticket while I'd been away. Maybe it would make a difference if I specifically asked about single tickets.

I was waiting in the queue at one of the ticket windows when an LFC steward singled me out and approached me. "Are you looking for a ticket?" he asked. When I confirmed that I was, he also told me that the match was sold out. "Even singles?" I asked, most likely with a tinge of despair in my voice. "Yes," he said, "but if you wait here by this railing, sometimes people come up to us trying to get rid of a single because someone couldn't make it. All they want is face value, and at least then you know it's a real ticket. Just stand right there, and if anyone comes up to me I'll send them over to you."

That sounded like the only viable option still available to me, so I stood where he'd asked. I wasn't quite far enough inside the fence, though, so he came back and told me to move. "I just don't want a tout to see you," he explained. We chatted for a bit, and he asked me if I'd had anything to eat. When I said I hadn't, he told me, "There's a cafe just across the street. Go get yourself something to eat and a cup of tea. If anyone comes to me with a ticket, I'll bring them over to you."

I was duly hungry and happy enough to do as he suggested. I devoured a cheap-as-chips English breakfast, even eating about half of the black (AKA blood) pudding. Just as I was heading toward the door, my steward came in and motioned for me to follow him. He told me that a guy had come up to him with a single ticket, and he'd told him about me. Supposedly he'd gone to the toilet, so we went back to the grounds to meet him when he returned.

My steward and I chatted outside the box office, waiting for my contact to show up. After a while we had to move over to the door of the shop so my steward could fulfill his duties minding the queue. By this time, the shop was absolutely mad. When I'd gone there, it had been busy but not unduly packed. Now the line extended from the door of the shop to the gates of the grounds and beyond. My steward (who introduced himself then as Tony) was tasked with counting the number of people who entered the shop and stopping the queue when it reached capacity. While we were standing there, Tony asked me about the boyfriend I don't have. Oh, I thought, so that's why you're trying so hard to find me a ticket. If I were a bloke, there's no way you'd be doing this for me. I definitely should have sussed that one out sooner, but I'm dumb about things like that most of the time.

Tony kept an eye out for the man with my ticket while we chatted, but he never arrived. When it became evident he wasn't coming back, Tony found someone to cover the queue for him and took me back to the box office. He introduced me to the head steward, who he said would almost certainly be able to sort something out for me before kick-off. I stood waiting in my original spot by the fence for that eventuality. The wind had picked up considerably, so I was happy to be carrying an excess of clothing. I pulled on a jumper and my new red and white LFC scarf. I still had two hours to go before the match began, so I was confident that Tony or the head steward would work something out.

Tony came back over on other business and asked me whether I'd found a ticket. "Not yet," I answered. "If you get sorted," he said, "come find us. We'll be right over there." As he left to go back to the queue, I saw him pointing me out to a third steward. I stood there looking as cold and miserable as possible, trying to engender some sympathy (I didn't have to try too hard; it was bloody cold and miserable). The latest steward to whom Tony had pointed me out came over after a bit. "I'm looking for a ticket for you. You must be cold," he observed. "You should go stand over there by the door so you're out of the wind." The head steward saw me starting to move in that direction and called, "Oh, don't leave yet, luv!" The third steward and I explained where I was going. I took shelter near the designated door, thrilled because I now knew for certain that they'd sort me out eventually.

I happened to be standing right next to a refreshment stand, so I bought some hot chocolate to help me ward off the cold (the doorway wasn't that much warmer). I scalded my tongue and the back of my throat on the initial sip, so I took the lid off to make it cool faster. I was standing there debating whether or not it was too soon to take a second sip when the head steward found me. "Come with me," he said. "I've got you sorted." I eagerly followed him, spilling my hot chocolate all over my hands on the way. This seemed to amuse the third steward quite a bit, but I can't say I blame him.

I went through a doorway and stood in a stairwell behind the ticket office with the head steward. He asked me if I had £34 (the face value of the ticket). I did, but I had to make him find me a napkin before I could hand it to him. Once that small dilemma was rectified, he went into the box office and emerged with my shiny ticket. I couldn't believe my luck and thanked him profusely.

I still had about an hour before kick-off, so I went to tell Tony I'd been sorted. He said he was now trying to sort my cab. Earlier we'd discussed the logistics of making it to the airport in time. It was going to be tricky; the match wouldn't end until about 7.00 and I was due to fly out of John Lennon at 9.30 that night. A cab seemed to be the only option, and Tony had warned me that the fare might be quite dear. I now told him not to worry; they'd already done enough by finding a ticket for me. "Well, do you want to pay £30 or £40?" he countered. He said to come find him in the main stand after the match and he'd try to sort me. I explained that I'd most likely have to leave early, so I wouldn't be able to take him up on his offer.

After we'd chatted for a while longer, Tony again found someone to cover his post for him and walked me to my seat in the Anfield Road stand. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes," he told one of his fellow stewards. "I'm just going to show her where her seat is." "See you in a couple of minutes," the second steward replied with a warning, you'd-better-be-back-soon edge to his voice. Tony picked up on this and laughed. "Ahhh, I'll see you later tonight," he said, waving him off dismissively. Then he returned to business and mumbled, "Nah, I'll see you in a few minutes." He brought me up to my seat, said goodbye and then left me to enjoy the match.

The brilliant help I received that day definitely helped to make up for the slightly lacklustre assistance I'd experienced previously. I had arrived in Liverpool wishing that I already had a ticket, but that wouldn't have been nearly as fun as being adopted by Tony and the rest of the LFC stewards. And having to pursue a ticket made finally finding one all the more rewarding. I was completely thrilled with my Anfield experience already, and the match hadn't even begun.