The Long and Winding Road to Anfield, Part 3: The Cab

The match itself flew by so quickly that I'm left with precious few impressions of it. One moment that does stand out in my mind is when the stands stood to sing the team's anthem, "You'll Never Walk Alone," before the match began. That was amazing in a way I can't describe, but from there the event is a blur. There was much standing in anticipation as Liverpool advanced on the goal, followed by a collective groan of despair when they failed to score. Chants, curse words and shouts of encouragement resounded from all corners of the stands.
"Come on, Crouchie!"
"Go on, lads!"
"That was shite, Stevie! Do something with the ball!"

The first half ended with a nil-nil score, and the second half continued in much the same fashion. As the 80th minute approached, I started debating whether or not I should leave. I was resigned to abandoning the stands before the match was entirely over, but I wasn't sure how soon I would need to go in order to beat the crowd and find a cab. The thought of leaving that early after working so hard to find my ticket struck me as unbearable, so I chose to linger a little longer.

I was quite pleased with that decision when Torres scored the first goal of the match in the 81st minute. All of Anfield exploded. Those who hadn't done already jumped to their feet to celebrate. The noise of cheering, clapping and shouting was unbelievable and continued for ages. The exuberant crowd had just begun to settle down and take their seats when Crouch was fouled. Stevie G stood before the Fulham goal planning his penalty shot, and a tense hush fell over the stadium. After a few excruciatingly prolonged seconds, the crowed roared again as the ball sailed safely into the net past the Fulham keeper.

Once that celebration ended, it seemed to be the perfect time for me to make my exit. Now that the excitement of the match was over, the full anxiety and urgency of reaching the airport on time hit me. I thundered down the stairs to street level and literally ran from Anfield Road back around to the KOP end. I trotted after a few other people on the main road who were equally eager to clear the grounds before the deluge of Reds fans choked the streets. I scanned my surroundings for a cab constantly. This was difficult because the streetlamps caused all the passing cars to reflect a yellow light that looked frustratingly like the one on the top of available taxis. Unfortunately no actual cabs were anywhere in sight, and I was soon joined on the street by the emptying stadium.

I really had no idea where I was going, so turned and went against the crowd back toward the grounds. I found a policeman on the street, told him I couldn't find a cab and asked if there were any buses that went to the airport. He directed me toward the city centre (where the mob was headed), saying I'd be able to find one there. I wasn't too concerned yet because I still had more than two hours before my flight was due to leave. Plus I was making better time on foot than the cars alongside me. By now it had started to rain. I walked with the ever-thinning crowd for ages without seeing anything that resembled the city centre. Doubting myself, I asked some men walking near me if I was going the right way. They pointed out a stop where I'd be able to catch a bus to the city centre.

I walked to the stop they'd indicated, keeping a sharp lookout for cabs as I went. None passed except for those that were already carrying passengers. My initial impulse upon reaching the bus shelter was to stand under it and out of the rain. The uncertainty that I was actually waiting in the right place soon drove me outside again, and I went to check the route information posted on a nearby pole. As I was poring over it, I saw a cab draw up to the kerb just a few feet from me. I trained an attentive stare on it, and rushed over when I saw its passenger stepping out. No sooner had he cleared the open door than I poked my head in, asking the driver if he could take me to the airport.

I'm certain he thought I was a bit daft. I told him I wanted to make sure I had enough money for the fare first, adding, "I only have £40" (bear in mind a cab from London city centre to the airport costs £50). "Ach, you'll be fine, luv," he snorted. Gleefully, I slammed the door and settled back for the ride. The post-match coverage he'd tuned in on the radio confirmed that I hadn't missed anything after the 86th minute. Liverpool had won 2-0. The driver tried to avoid some of the traffic by taking a few back streets. This made me feel a bit unsettled because I was locked in a car with somebody I didn't know in an unfamiliar city. How do I know we're actually going to the airport? It didn't help that the roads we travelled were paved with mountainous speed bumps. We lurched over them, sending my stomach lurching as well.

I felt better once we'd returned to the main roads. The signs that appeared reassured me that we were, in fact, en route to the airport. I arrived at John Lennon with a mere £20 fare and more than an hour before the check-in desk closed. I killed my excess time and British mobile credit by calling friends and family and enthusing about my day. I really miss having a mobile plan that allows me to call the US for 5p a minute, so I took full advantage of having it back temporarily.

Somehow I misread the boarding gate screen and nearly missed my flight anyhow. But my luck continued to hold out. I made last call and stepped onto a plane full of people dressed in Liverpool kit. Aside from some stupendously drunk English girls begging the flight attendants for alcohol, the flight was short and uneventful. Back at the Dublin airport, I watched with envy as all the people with EU passports flashed them at the customs officers, barely breaking stride as they passed. I was left waiting in the queue for the "All other passports" desk. It wasn't long at that time of the night, and I soon found myself before the officer.

"Are you living here?" he asked when I slid my passport through the opening in the plexiglass. I flipped to the page that bore my work authorisation stamp and told him I also had my (huge 8.5" x 11" laminated) visa if he needed that. He didn't wish to see it, and instead asked, "Where are you coming from?"
"Liverpool," I responded, unconsciously drawing out the ending so it sounded a bit like "Liverpewl."
"Shopping?" he asked.
"No," I answered rather indignantly. "I was at the match."
"What do you know about the match," he snickered. What an ignorant arse. I was tempted to tell him off, but thought better of it. Though I'm still not entirely fond of this country, I'd rather not be ejected from it before my visa expires.

I consider my journey to Anfield quite successful. The extent to which I enjoyed the match experience more than outweighed the initial strife of finding a ticket. True to the team's anthem, I discovered that you'll never walk alone if you have hope in your heart...and an LFC steward who fancies you.