We lost my dad on the 13th of April just past. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in late 2017 and had gradually declined since, eventually losing interest in most things, including football. Football had been his passion from boyhood, playing for and captaining his local team from his teens through to his thirties, before becoming a full time spectator, both with me at the games, and from his sofa at home. He was a football man. Every weekend as I was growing up he'd be at a game somewhere. Always trying to persuade me to go with him. Often failing in those attempts. Seeing that passion fade away, seeing who he was fade away, was absolutely heartbreaking to watch play out. He's the reason that I got into football, and he's the reason I support Liverpool. He took me to my first game at Anfield in '98, a 2-1 win against Sheffield Wednesday. Berger and Owen on the scoresheet that day. He took me to Dortmund for the 2001 UEFA Cup Final, even though it meant skipping my A/S Level exams, he didn't care. That was the first trophy I saw the Reds win live, and having that memory with him is something that I will cherish for the rest of my life. One of my best memories in football, and in life, full stop. As I got a bit older, as you do, I stopped going with him and started going with mates. At that age you can't afford much though, so a little like Hij, my dad subbed me for Istanbul. Part time work at Tesco wasn't covering the cost of that trip. He knew he was never getting that money back, but he gave me it without hesitation. He loved that I was so passionate about the game that he had immersed himself in for so many years, that we had that added bond around football, and helping me to follow that, and seeing the enjoyment it gave me, I think meant a lot to him. I know it did.
The last game that we went to together was the 2-1 defeat at home to Wolves in the FA Cup in January 2017. Looking back, even then I should have seen the change in him. I guess to an extent I just didn't want to see it. He was incredibly withdrawn, particularly from the standards of a man who would regularly make me laugh over the years at his apparent need to say hello to absolutely everyone he passed. Whether they responded didn't seem to matter, it was more about being positive, and spreading that positivity. We'd regularly have people shout to him if we were walking somewhere and I'd ask who they were; "I don't have a clue mate", he'd whisper before shouting back to them as if he was greeting an old friend. That said a lot about him and how he approached life, and I loved him for it. It wasn't just that, he taught me so many things. One of the most patient, friendly and caring people you could ever meet. Always there for me, no matter what, or when, or the circumstances. He wanted You'll Never Walk Alone at his funeral, and so of course we played it. That song has sentimentality to all of us for obvious reasons, but it will carry an added significance to me now, and the next time I get the opportunity to stand at Anfield and sing it, i'll be singing it to my dad. I'm not religious and I don't believe in the afterlife, but I'm comforted by the simple knowledge that he's no longer suffering. That the cruelty of dementia will not now have the opportunity to take more of him away. That we shared so many great times, both in general and in following the Reds - and as long as I have those, he'll always be with me. That's my comfort. The thing that devastates me is that he never got the opportunity to meet his grandchildren. Our twin boys were born two days after his birthday, in February. I had arranged for him to come and visit them the week after they came home, but the day before I was due to pick him up he was taken into hospital, and coupled with the lock-down restrictions, the opportunity was lost. They will know through me who he was, though, i'll make sure of that, and I know that he would have been their hero, just as he will always be mine, had they had the chance to know him as I did. And so, on Sunday I'll watch my first Liverpool game without my dad, and for the first time after a game I won't be able to call him and discuss the fallout. To be honest, he's probably glad of that. I will watch it with our boys though, and i'll be thinking of him. Always.
You'll never walk alone, dad.
Francis Revell, 1937-2020