Tomorrow is the 26th anniversary of Hillsborough.
Like so many people I’ve thought about it every day since. I’ve written about it. I’ve talked about it. I’ve cried about it.
Each time I try to write something about Hillsborough I want to find something fitting to say. Something that captures the feelings of devastation. Something that adequately captures the respect and admiration I have for those incredible families. Something that would make them proud. But every time the pen approaches the paper I know I will never quite be able to do it.
This year there is so much I would like to write as the new inquests have developed and things have been said in the witness box – but that is not a good idea. It is right to wait until the legal process has concluded before commenting. That time will come.
So for the moment, I fall back on my memories. Memories of that sunny day 26 years ago. Memories of being a 10 year old boy, playing football in the back garden in my Liverpool kit with the radio for company, listening to the match. Memories of my Mum and Dad coming home early from their wedding anniversary weekend away – we gave our tickets away for the game (Upper Tier, Leppings Lane) – and seeing them cry, and cry and cry.
Watching the simple commemorations on TV last night at Anfield brought those memories flooding back. Hearing George’s voice before the minute’s silence was wonderfully warming but desperately sad. Tomorrow I will think about myself and my Dad and once again feel lucky that we were not there. But like every other day I will think mostly about our 96 brothers and sisters, their loved ones and their memories.