I was 9. My dad and uncle had gone the game and had tickets in the Leppings Lane. Me and my blue-nose mate in were in mine in Bootle. My mum had gone down the shops when the game kicked off. We stuck on Radio Merseyside to listen to the games, missed the kick-off, so by the time we tuned in they were talking about the horrors unfolding at Hillsborough. I was nearly sick, terrified for my dad, assuming the worst. we stuck on the telly and saw the footage from the ground. without doubt the most scared I have ever been in my life up to that point.
My mum came back from the shops by which time I was inconsolable. She assured me that my dad and uncle would both be ok, but obviously she was as worried as I was, and trying not to show it. Most of that afternoon was a blur. I remember us watching the telly and trying to see my dad on the pitch, seeing somebody in a similar jacket to his walking around, and trying to convince ourselves it was him (it wasn't). My mate getting me to go for a kick-around in the street to take my mind off it. Old friends of my dad he hadn’t seen in years calling ours to ask if he had gone the game.
Late afternoon we got a call from my grandparents, my dad had called saying they were both ok. A woman in Sheffield had let them use the phone in her house, there was apparently a queue of people outside waiting to use it, she refused to take money off people who offered it. My dad and uncle made it home, we met them in my grandparents house. My uncle didn’t say a word in the time we were there, just sat in silence drinking. My dad tried to talk about it, but broke down. It was the first time I’d seen him cry. I remember the next day being really sunny, but the streets seeming deserted, you could almost feel the numbness in the air, a horrible silence that resonated around the city.
