An article from our archive:
Memories of the Boys' Pen
Banished high in the top southeast corner of the Kop like a miniature Soviet Gulag, several hundred snotty-nosed urchins would cram together for each home game – extras from Oliver Twist – screaming, fighting, spitting and supporting the Mighty Reds from the Boys’ Pen. This was Anfield 1961.
Many had graduated from the three-quarter-time brigade. Those kids who would walk from the far corners of Liverpool, or bunk on the bus, to stand outside the ground for the entire match so we could slip in when the gates opened after 70 minutes to let fans out. We would swarm in and quickly disperse throughout the Kop trying to find a spec with a view. I still think of matches reaching three-quarter time even today.
We would then walk home with the crowds of grown ups skipping alongside the men with the scarves, flat caps and rattles, listening to the chat and pretending we had been there all the time. In our minds we had seen the entire first half and early second half action even though we had only heard the roars and the oohs and aahhs from outside the massive Cathedral that is Anfield.
We used to imagine the action as we waited for three-quarter time. The mental pictures were far superior to anything Sky could serve up and our analysis was a league apart from that offered by Andy Grey today. We would play out imaginary scenes outside the ground kicking punctured plastic footballs covered in dog dirt against the huge doors at the Kop end until they finally opened. My heart would rise and fall on the waves of sound coming from the ground. You could tell which half Liverpool were in, the amount of possession they had, whether they were going through a lull or attack-attack-attacking like a mighty red wave.
Sometimes the more daring would try to dart under the turnstile as an adult went through before the match but I never did – I was always afraid of getting caught. Those were the days when officials would thump you and if you complained to your dad he would thump you too for doing something that deserved a thumping! Three quarter time was my only way of seeing Liverpool as they rose from the old Second Division to the First Division – the wonderful First Division (that promotion was a wonderful experience) - in those glory days before the Premiership.
I can’t remember, but I think there was an age limit for the Boys’ Pen, unless you were accompanied. That must have been the case because, as an only child, I remember asking older lads to say I was their little brother and get me in. The trouble is, the kids who went on the Boys’ Pen were hard. You had to be a survivor even to queue up. You could not show fear. Fear would be pounced on. There were no away fans but the number of scraps before, during and after the match was scary. The Kop was warm and friendly – the Boys’ Pen was angry, aggressive and mean.
But I remember clearly my first experience on the Boys’ Pen. I remember the fear as I climbed smelly concrete stairs higher and higher and the exhilaration when I finally came round a grey/white/yellow concrete wall and looked down on Anfield. I don’t think I’d been as high in any man-made structure before in my life. I must have been 10 or 11.
I remember being hungry and thirsty. Breakfast and lunch didn’t exist on match days except for “give us a chip mate”. And we never dressed for the weather. There were lots of cold, wet, hungry, smelly kids on the Boys’ Pen.
And I remember when you got in and legged it up the stairs and looked out over Anfield that the ground was empty. The tradition in the Boys’ Pen was to get in early, try to get to the front and then, if you were hard enough, try to escape. All that effort to get in and all we wanted was to make an escape bid. The Kop was our freedom. The Boys’ Pen was a transit camp to heaven. It was a rite of passage for any Liverpool kid in the 60’s.
And so the regular pre-match entertainment got underway. As the Kop filled up the boys in the Pen got braver and braver. One by one kids would make a dash for freedom. Some would climb the railings to the point where they almost met the rafters. They would sway on the top risking broken limbs or being impaled on rusty metal – just because you had too.
Perhaps it was a testosterone thing, perhaps it was claiming hierarchy in some local gang, perhaps it was just survival, but it was risky, brave and awesome to watch. Other kids would create a diversion by staging a mock fight – or was it real – nearby. The police and stewards would race to the scene trying to prevent some kid getting his head kicked in and the bid for freedom would begin in earnest.
Once on the top of the railings the kid would balance. Sometimes an official would pull the child’s leg to stop him jumping – that always seemed the more dangerous option. The Kop would cheer and chant, a fireman’s blanket of fans would gather to catch the kid and it was all over in seconds. The urchin would leap, the Kop would catch, and the kid would fall to the ground and, like a rat up a sewer, would disappear from view in the blink of an eye. The Kop would let out a mighty roar, the Boys’ Pen would let out a mighty squeal and the next escapee would line up, as the next decoy scrap would begin.
I can’t really remember making a bid for freedom. I can remember trying but I also remember enjoying my time on the Boys’ Pen and singing so hard my chest, throat and head hurt. We thought we sounded great. Our job was to re-ignite the Kop when they had gone quite. I didn’t realise until I claimed my spec on the Kop the following season that we were producing an ear-splitting cacophony of screeching that was painful. The Kop only joined in to drown out the kids on the Boys’ Pen.
When I first took my lads to the family section at the back of the Kop I pointed out where the Boys’ Pen was. The youngest asked me to explain what it was. “Another day son, it doesn’t make sense these days”. It is a rite of passage that thankfully they will never have to go through.
© Homesick 2002
