You'll never walk alone (pt.2) ...

On Wednesday, Novemer 10^th, a new level of my relationship with Liverpool Football Club was started: I saw them play live. I was there in the stands, with uncompromising attention, etching into my memory the evening’s 90 minutes in the very same manner as I did those many years ago on that fateful afternoon that I became a Red. But this time, the names were not Fowler, McManaman and Rush, but instead Gerrard, Torres and Reina, who before me trotted out onto the pitch, prepared for their day’s work.

From the stands, I witnessed it all. Gerrard’s inextinguishable desire to perform, Carragher’s organization of the back four, Lucas’ skilled possession (a rare performance of quality from this typically shit player) and Torres’ pace and eye to finish which scored the match’s opener.

In the second half, Wigan drew the scores level. From this, Liverpool pushed forward, looking for that second goal that would win the game for them. This effort was primarily driven by team captain, and Liverpudlian himself, Steven Gerrard, who worked incessantly towards the common target of getting his club their much needed three points. At the age of thirty, the display that Liverpool's talisman put on at the DW Stadium was absolutely timeless. There seemed not a moment in which Gerrard seemed to stop giving his all, leaving no doubt in his teammates’ minds who their captain was and why. Similarly, he showed to supporters at the grounds that only the Reddest of blood ran through his veins.

As fate would have it, near the game’s end (79^th minute) Gerrard was played through on goal, by means of a clever flick from Torres, with just the keeper to beat. Gerrard’s shot was drilled past the keeper’s outstretched right hand, aimed intently on the far upper 90. The ball screamed towards the goal, but was aimed perhaps just a bit too high, for it struck the bar and plummeted straight downwards hitting the ground about 6 inches shy of the goal line.

The game ended in a 1-1 draw, and as I left the stadium, I was reeling a bit from the two points lost, as well as feeling a bit disillusioned that my first Liverpool match was not a win.

As I mentioned earlier, to analyze one’s relationship with football and their club is to more closely analyze one’s life. The act of being a football supporter is an inseparable aspect of a true supporter that one cannot segregate the fanaticism from anything else. As for me, the relevance of football to my life appears unmistakable. Along with the steam that has gathered in my support for Liverpool, my relationship with England grows in accordance. Let’s make a timeline.

1995-1997: These two years I spent living in England. I was undoubtedly a Red as I was an English resident. Looking back, my support for Liverpool was a defining feature of my two years' experience.

1997-2005: Residing in America. I was playing football, but ceased to be a supporter of any team. America's stubborn ignorance of the sport proved contagious. Sure I would watch the World cup, but I was a shell of the supporter I used to be.

2005: Champions League Victory. The resurge begins. After this match (the last of the season) I put forth a dedicated effort to catch up on the years that I had missed, trophies won and players come and gone.

2006: 3-week summer visit to friends in England. I was back in England for the first time in 9 years. Now competent in the sport, I easily conversed with my old friends, who had kept loyal to the game throughout those years I had missed. My dues had been paid, and I was now on the level of the game's most ardent supporters.

2009: 6-week summer course in England. Though I flipped through The Sun daily to read the latest transfer rumours (this summer was easily the craziest transfer period in modern football), these six weeks reconnected me with a different, somewhat forgotten, old friend: England. The course was spent in London for the first half, then finished in northern England, after a 190-mile hike across the nation, coast-to-coast. Easily one of the most memorable and happiest times of my life, and when I came back to the states, I was firm in my decision to study abroad again in England, but this time for a full year.

2010-2011: One year study at University of East Anglia, Norwich, UK. Includes many trips to the pub to watch Liverpool games, a trip north to see Liverpool play live and very little time spent in class.

With these revelations in mind, it seems that my support for Liverpool acts as a direct symptom of my love for England. After I watched that fateful match in 2005, I knew that Liverpool was calling me back to them, calling me back to being a Red, once again. To be honest, it was fate that I even knew the match was being played, let alone that I realized it in time to cut school and watch it. And of course, there was magic in the air that inspired the greatest of comebacks, making Liverpool champions of Europe for the fifth time in the club's rich history. But was this game really just about Liverpool? Or was it that England too was calling me back. I could have read that article and been apathetic. I could have said, 'That's nice for them, but I've moved on.' But I didn't. I knew the importance of this game, and what it would mean to me, so I cut class and saw it. There was indeed something, something deep, something ingrained into me those many years ago that called out, that called me back to Liverpool ... that, ultimately, called me back to England.

As I think about the fateful cup finals in '96 and '05, I see a similar thread of fate that starts with Liverpool FC in '96 and ends with me, here in England, once again ... LW

So uni ...

I glance down at my mobile: ‘12:05,’ it reads. “Ok, so where exactly is the rest of my class?” I start to wonder as I sit down on a hallway bench right outside the empty classroom in which my creative writing seminar is scheduled. But still, there is not a stir inside this classroom. Due to the university’s bizarre scheduling of all pm class at ten minutes past the hour, I still have five minutes until class actually starts. “Well, I guess people must be cutting it pretty close” I start to think.

But people are not just cutting it close. Neither the professor nor the other fifteen students in my poetry module are on their way to class at all, and I know this. I know this because the same exact freak occurrence happened last week, at the exact same time, in the exact same hallway, involving me sitting down on the exact same bench, outside the exact same classroom reaching the exact same conclusion: “Well, I guess class must be cancelled today.”

But no. “There’s no way that class could be cancelled two weeks in a row and I don’t get one email, before or after class, letting me know about it” I start to reason. But, at the moment, with no other viable possibilities present in my mind, I resign to believe again in my hypothesis. Sheepishly, I stand up from my bench, put on my hat and jacket, and begin the walk back to my flat.

On the walk back, I start calculating the increasing number of weeks it has been since I have been present at this poetry seminar: “Ok, so we had a reading week the week before last, so I know for sure there was definitely no classes that week. Then last week, I showed up and hung around for twenty minutes and nothing was going on, so I’m almost positive seminar was cancelled that week. And then today, if seminar is indeed cancelled, this will be the third week in a row that we didn’t have class.” I am suspicious: “This number does seem a bit high,” I start to think. Given that I am traditionally accustomed to classes meeting up to three times a week, the possibility of going almost four weeks without class meeting seems impossible. I have reached my the door to my building, turn the key and start up the stairs, headed to my room where I will, just like last Monday, check my email to see if I have a notification from my professor notifying me of our seminar’s cancellation.

But there is no email, and I knew there would not be. Flustered, I check the course register online to reassure myself that the class itself has not been cancelled for the year (for this seems to me to be the next most probable option I can think of) and indeed it has not been. Then, I check the course outline to see if perhaps the missing weeks are explained there, but again this yields no results. Now perhaps a bit paranoid, I examine the course information, to double check to see if I had indeed been slumped on a bench outside of the wrong classroom for two weeks in a row. I found that I had not been incorrect.

“Damn,” I say aloud. “What could it be?” I thought. Exasperated, I slump down on my (horridly uncomfortable) bed. Then it hits me. I rush back to my laptop and read once again the course information. Finally, all is revealed. “Holy shit, Luke” I think to myself in disgust, “you’re officially a dumbass!” I check my mobile. ‘12:35,’ it reads. “Ok,” I think to myself, while doing some quick math “I have 25 minutes to get to my poetry seminar ... that should be enough time for a cup of tea.”

As I put the kettle on, I realize the pathetic truth behind the events that have just transpired: Due to my absence from class for over two weeks, I had forgotten the time that it meets. And the most depressing part? It’s November, late November ... LW

You'll never walk alone (pt.1) ...

Whenever an author (not sure if I’m calling myself that) writes about football, it is a deeply personal experience. For a true fan of the beautiful game, one’s passion for football and their club of choice is as inseparable from themselves as the act of breathing. Therefore, when an author writes about this game, whether it be Hornby or McGinniss, what they are really writing about is themselves. (For example: in his memoir Fever Pitch, Nick Hornby concludes that his obsession for Arsenal as a youth was a fairly direct product of his parents divorce and filled an uneasy time in his childhood ... it's a good read if you're up for it). As I am both an avid football supporter and abroad in England, I feel it is necessary to write some sort of meditation on this game that I love, and what it really means to me. I am interested in my roots as a football supporter, but what I am more interested in is the way football has affected my life and whether or not, like Hornby, my passion for football can be used as a lens to aptly view myself and my life. With that said, here we go.

The first football match I had ever seen was on May 11^th 1996, the FA Cup final between Manchester United and Liverpool Football Club. Though being six years old at the time, I remember this game vividly. I was watching it at home with my dad, brother, sister and a couple of friends. All of the previously mentioned people, save for my dad, was supporting Manchester United. I had a decision to make, one that (little did I know at the age of six years) would affect the rest of my life and, in terms of the nation I am currently living in, is among the biggest decisions one ever makes. Basically, in England, supporting a football resembles marriage more than anything else. The only difference between the two is that every English lad is loyal to their football clubs.

I chose Liverpool, and with that moment, my 15 year relationship with this club was forged. Over the next two years I spent in England, I became as ardent a Reds fan as there ever was. Fowler, McManaman, Barnes and Rush were not just names to me anymore, but living Gods, whose grace and skill on the football pitch earned them an amount of admiration that I could never fully repay. Liverpool became a close friend, an ideology and a way of life for me. Looking back, at this age, if someone were to tell me that I would someday stop being a Reds fan, I would have probably told them to 'fuck off.'

When I came back to the states, I was still playing the game. I was a quick pacey winger with an eye for the assist. I was full of potential, potential that I might add amounted to a very average high school career, but the game was still close to me nonetheless. However, being a football supporter became harder in states. Where football was far and away the sport of England, in the states football became crowded out by the NBA and NFL. Americans did not grasp the subtleties and grace of the game and soon the names of Fowler, McManaman and Rush slipped from their perches as gods and the passion they previously inspired in me merely turned into nostalgia for those long forgotten days of my youth.

Then, in May of 2005, as quickly as Liverpool entered into my life, it came roaring back. Turning through the pages of Sports Illustrated, reading up on the upcoming NBA playoffs, I came across an article telling the story of an underdog team that made it all the way to the Champions League final. This team was Liverpool. They had fought their way through the group and knockout stages to play AC Milan in the 2005 Champions League final. I knew that I was lucky to have even heard about this game, so I had no choice but to watch. Due to the time difference of the game being played in Instanbul, I cut out of school early to watch it.

The first half did not go well. Actually, this is an understatement. It was horrible. With 45 minutes played, Liverpool went three goals down and there looked to be no hoisting of the cup possible after the other 45 were complete. But losing in the final in this disgraceful manner was not on the cards for this fateful evening. In the second half, Liverpool’s talismanic captain, Steven Gerrard pulled one goal back with a cleverly placed header. Then, Vladimir Smicer’s left-footed rocket beat AC Milan’s Dida to his far post (this is easily Smicer’s greatest accomplishment as a Liverpool player, for he was sold weeks later). Then Xabi Alonso converted the rebound of his saved penalty to level the scores at 3 all. When the game remained level after the additional 30 minutes, penalties followed. As fate would have it, Liverpool’s keeper, Jerzy Dudek demonstrated incredible heroics, saving three of AC Milan’s four penalty attempts. Liverpool prevailed, completing the greatest comeback in a cup final ever in one of the most memorable game ever played. The relationship that was forged 15 years ago, was now cemented, permanently and forever.

Since then, I have been through it all with this team. I have been there for the highs: 2006 FA Cup final (perhaps the most dominant and clutch single player performance in a cup final by Steven Gerrard) and the lows: 2007 Champions League final loss, narrowly missing the Premier League title in 2009, the tyrannical reign of Hicks and Gillett and currently sitting in 9^th place while losing to shit teams like Stoke while talentless shitheads like Lucas play 85 minutes and then get sent off (not that I’m bitter or anything). I have seen players come and go. Some good, that I didn't want to see leave (Xabi Alonso, Mascherano, Peter Crouch) and some not so good (Robbie Keane, Craig Bellamy, Alberto Aquilani). I've seen the manager who has been at the helm of Liverpool since 2005 leave and a new one arrive. But, despite these many changes, the old dictum invariably holds true: "Once a Red, always a Red." Though the likes of Alonso and Crouch have moved on, they are still Reds to me, similar to how I once lost my passion, only to gain it back again.

But, as I mentioned above, this entry is not really about football, but my life. My life, in which football plays some allegorical part in shaping who I am. As I scan my brain for overarching conclusions and moments of clarity, stay tuned for part 2 ... LW

No direction home ...

To pick up where my last entry left off, the paper that I hastily completed in the morning of the day of its submission subsequently enabled me to skip a week of classes. The purpose of this was to travel to northern England to visit a good mate of mine from Allegheny, currently studying for a semester at Lancaster University. Having cut myself off from the meaningless communicative platforms of facebook and skype for this year abroad (I’m writing letters instead), my visit with my friend from Allegheny has been the closest interaction with anyone from back in the states.

My mate, who, unlike me, had been keeping closely in touch in with ties in the states through the more up to date and technological means, had a lot of news for me. For a first, he informed me of who the newly elected president of my fraternity was (by the way, he isn't even in my fraternity), which was information previous unbeknownst to me. He also informed me of other things going on back at school: who won Greek Sing, who was hooking up with who and more until I said: “hey man, sorry; but, I don’t care ... I’m in England.”

Since August, my phone has been off. If you live in the United States, you do not have my English mobile number (this includes my parents). If you have tried to chat or posted on my wall on facebook, I have not replied (birthdays being the exception). I may have commented on a status or two, but only if I cannot resist. I took myself off of the email lists of groups and clubs I was a member of at Allegheny. I do not skype.

This is not to say that I do not value my friends in the states (they are as close to me as when I left), but rather it is an attempt of mine to filter out the pointless minutia of the technological world in order to fully enjoy my year in England. Before leaving England, many questions regarding how to best stay in touch arose. Just because I can let everyone exactly what I’m doing at every second, would anyone really care to read it? What’s the point of being in England if I am just as accessible to everyone as when I lived on the second floor of the Phi Psi house? Why turn your life into a magazine, when it should be a novel? If I'm living in England, then why choose to technologically exist in America?

As my mate and I caught up on this and that, the conversation invariably reverted back to Allegheny, I grew more angry, being reminded of the annoying and frustrating factions that I very willingly left behind last spring. I said a few things. Things like: “I’m only returning to Allegheny because of its fucked up distribution requirements that make it impossible for me to graduate from Dickinson in four years.” I’m not sure how I feel about that statement now, but I meant it when I said it.

I write about two letters to people each week, not surprisingly some cannot be bothered to reply, but that’s not really the point. The point is the personal nature of writing that facebook and skype lacks. It is impossible to hand write a letter without getting 100 percent of personality and emotions through to the reader. To be honest, I find that simply writing about things I have done makes for a very boring letter, while details of how I am/have been feeling makes for a far more entertaining one. My friends can get all the specific details and epic stories when I return, perhaps over a couple beers at the bar, being that I am now 21!

If my attempts at maintaining my life’s novel format have succeeded (and that if it has taken the form of this blog), then I’d like to dedicate this chapter of it to everyone I’ve left behind and express my gratitude at respecting the communicative bounds I’ve set for myself in England. It’s not always easy, but I feel it is a vital element of my extended residence in the UK. If you’re frustrated by my reclusiveness (as many of you have privately expressed to me) send me a letter, I’ll send you one back ... LW

STUDying abroad ...

Ok, I brought this on myself.

At the time of writing, it is 12:03 Greenwich Mean Time. I’ll list a couple other important times and dates. The first: 13:30 on Wednesday November 10; the time in which I have to hand in a paper for my Modernism seminar. The second: 19:45 on the same day; the time which I and a friend have tickets to see the mighty Liverpool FC kick the sorry shite out of Wigan. The last: tomorrow November 8 at 11:00, the time in which my train is set to depart from Norwich to northern England where I will be taking a bit of a holiday this week until Saturday.

Now, you don’t exactly have to be a gifted mind to realize that, before I can board my train and piss off for the rest of this week, I first need to hand in my Modernism paper. Herein lies the problem: In addition to being 12:15 at the time of writing, as of now I have just finished a lengthy session of staring blankly at my equally occupied computer page and wondering, ‘what the fuck I am going to write about?'

Given that I need to allocate for myself about an hour to get to the train station tomorrow morning, and that the process of printing pages at UEA is about as an illogical mess as my process of writing this Modernism paper, I need to give myself about two hours to hand in this paper, get to the train station by 11:00 and board my train to Lancaster. This means two things. The first: that I have 9 hours to conceive, write and proofread a paper before I hand it in. The second: I’m a fucking idiot.

Now, university in England may be a complete joke, just an excuse for English twentysomethings to get drunk, an insulting mockery of rigorous academia, or all of the above; but, this really takes the piss. Unacceptable. Also, the fact that I have just used up more of these precious nine hours writing this blog is equally despicable and counterproductive. As I sit here in my room, listening to Passion Pit, I am contemplating two things. The first: the possibility of analyzing the apocalyptic doomsaying of Yeats’ “The Second Coming” as a prediction of the rise of facism. The second: the utter certainty of my flatmates ripping me for publishing a blog when I am supposed to start writing this paper to hand in tomorrow morning, enabling me to skip a week of classes.

At the time of publishing, it is 1:01 Greenwich Mean Time. Sleep does not present itself as a possiblity. 8 hours left ... LW

Runner's high ...

After I wake up on this particular morning, I do two things: make a cup of tea and accompany it with either crumpets or a scone. Although these three characteristics of my morning do little to differentiate this morning from almost any other English morning of mine, my subsequent activities will.I withdraw to back to my room to have another smoke; but instead of changing into a pair of cords, a flannel, my trusty Birkenstocks and heading to class, I opt instead for a long sleeve thermal, shorts and my trusty Nike (not pronouncing the ‘E’ at the end) running shoes, for today I do not have class. After I lace up the Nike’s, I leave my flat, just off campus at UEA’s University Village, and start running down Earlham Road, which leads me into the university centre. Earlham Road carries me south, through the heart of UEA’s myriad maze of elevated walkways and modern architecture and leaves me at the campus’ end, where a series of dirt paths will lead me the rest of the way along my run. The first path of the morning leads me behind UEA’s sport fields, where, if I’m lucky, I can catch a minute or two of the rugby team playing as I carry on past.

After the rugby pitch, I arrive at the focal point of my destination: UEA Lake, which sits just below of the university campus’ Suffolk Terraces, a breathtaking contrast of modern architecture set amidst the wonders of the natural world. As I have been running for while now, endorphins start to be released to my head, keeping strong my (runner’s) high. I spend several minutes and 2.3 miles (the only length of my run that I know) tracing the banks of the lake, my feet pounding on the path to the rhythms of something like Rodrigo y Gabriela’s scintillating guitar play.

After I have fully circled the lake, my path turns into a trail; and the reedy bankside plantlife of the lake changes to tall trees, thick bushes and a deep forest which I carve through as I carry along my trail. I follow this trail through the Earlham Wood, as it is called; and [...] and then push on for the remainder of my run. Feeling fresh and renewed, the forest seems somewhat illuminated now and I feel as if it breathes with me as I push harder and harder along my trail.

Marking the latter half of my run, I have reached the most difficult portion. The trail becomes muddy. With each foot forward, my Nike’s flick up a clump of dirt that splats on the ground behind me. My calves have become spattered with mud. Having been gone from my flat for over an hour now, my body reminds of the fact.

At last I emerge from the wood and into Earlham Park, running along its picturesque creek until I take on one final uphill stretch. I push harder as my legs grow weaker, but I at last reach the summit. I find the nearby street, turn the corner and I am back at my flat. I stretch. Have a shower, put the kettle on ... LW