Why I always tells people that supporting Liverpool is a journey through darkness.
When Liverpool finally lifted the Premier League trophy in the summer of 2020, the world erupted in celebration. Banners flew, fireworks pierced the night, and voices hoarse from generations of songs carried into the humid sky.
To many of the so-called Liverpudlians, it was a moment of unbridled joy, a sudden explosion after a long drought. But for those of us who lived through every one of the thirty preceding years — the decades of false dawns, the seasons of quiet heartbreak, the endless refrains of “next year will be our year” — it was something different. It was not the sweet, naive ecstasy of sudden success. It was the slow, weary, almost disbelieving exhale of men and women who had carried the weight of longing for half a lifetime. It was a release tempered by caution, a celebration laced with a deeper, more enduring wisdom: never mistake victory for permanence.
Supporting Liverpool from early 1990s to 2020 was an exercise in patient survival. It was about holding onto belief not because you were constantly rewarded, but because letting go would mean losing a part of yourself.
It reminds me — strangely but unshakably — of living under a long, stifling regime, like those who endured the New Order military dictatorship in Indonesia. No bombs were falling, no daily clashes in the streets. Instead, it was the slow suffocation of hope, the careful rationing of dreams to keep from going mad. You learned to live on very little. You learned that having faith in tomorrow was an act of quiet, necessary defiance.
Those thirty years taught us to hold our hope carefully. Not to parade it, not to spend it recklessly at the first hint of sunshine, but to store it in secret places, feeding it when we could, never letting it fully die.
It was easy to dream in the early days when Souness promised a return to the old ways when the likes of Fowler and McManaman dazzled us with homegrown brilliance. Even easier when Houllier’s disciplined revolution brought us cup after cup in 2001, hinting at a structure that might last.
Rafa Benitez gave us the greatest night in modern football with Istanbul, and for a time we believed we were truly back. 2008-09 burned most fiercely when we chased Ferguson’s United all the way to the wire and finished with 86 points. That team should have been crowned kings.
But the gods of football care little for ‘should’. And when it all crumbled after, the pain cut deeper for having dared to hope again.
By the time Jürgen Klopp arrived in 2015, many of us were seasoned survivors. We recognised the charisma, the tactical intelligence, the unity he spoke of. But deep down, we had seen too many messiahs fail. We had marched too often behind banners of ‘rebuild’, ‘reform’, ‘project’. We welcomed Klopp — how could we not? — but we did so the way an old soldier welcomes a young commander: with a respect forged from realism, not romance. We had learned to hope without delusion.
Even as Klopp’s Liverpool soared to new heights, reaching finals, toppling giants, reawakening the magic of Anfield, we remained cautious. Even after the Champions League triumph in 2019, some part of me — some scarred, stubborn part — still whispered: “Be careful.” One trophy does not banish thirty years of wandering. One night of glory does not erase a lifetime of watching dreams slip away.
And yet, 2019-20 was different. From the first weeks, it became clear that this Liverpool was not built of brittle dreams but of steel and fire. They were relentless, ruthless, a machine forged in Klopp’s image but powered by something older, deeper: the spirit of Shankly’s socialism, of Paisley’s cold pragmatism, of Fagan’s quiet ruthlessness. Week after week, they ground down the opposition. They didn’t just win matches; they broke opponents’ hearts. There was a serenity about them, a quiet certainty. It wasn’t a question of if we would win the league. It was only a question of when.
When it finally happened, it didn’t feel like fireworks to me. It felt like silence. Like standing on a mountaintop after a lifetime of climbing, seeing the world stretched out below you, feeling the wind tear at your face. It was beautiful, yes, but it was heavy too. There were tears, but not the easy, joyful tears of children. These were the tears of men and women who had carried burdens too long, too deep.
Victory, we learned, is a dangerous thing. It changes expectations. It shifts the burden. It makes people forget how hard the journey was.
After 2020, many newer fans assumed that this was only the beginning. They talked of dynasties, of five, six, and seven titles. They demanded new signings, immediate success, and endless trophies. The hunger was understandable — success always tastes sweeter after the famine. But for those of us who had lived through the thirty years of darkness, caution remained our closest companion.
We knew that football, like life, runs in cycles. That dominance is fleeting. That injuries, fortune, the natural erosion of brilliance — all conspire to drag even the greatest down. We saw it happen faster than even we feared. The injury crisis of 2020-21 was a brutal reminder of football’s fragility. One year at the summit, the next fighting just to stay in Europe. Klopp’s genius remained, but the forces arrayed against us were powerful, remorseless.
And so we learned once again to carry hope carefully. To enjoy the victories — the cups in 2022, the incredible unbeaten runs — but never to assume. Never to demand. Never to treat success as our birthright. It was a lesson written in the bones of every Kopite who stood on the terraces during the grey years, who travelled to the furthest corners of the country with little but a stubborn love to show for it.
As the 2024-25 season dawns, Liverpool stands on the brink of a new era. Klopp’s departure marked the end of something vast and beautiful. A new manager takes the helm, young talents blossom, old warriors step aside. It is a time of uncertainty — and with it, a time of opportunity. But if you ask the older heads in the stands, the ones who still sing every word of “Poor Scouser Tommy” with tears in their eyes, you won’t hear bold predictions. You won’t hear promises of titles. You’ll hear something quieter, but infinitely stronger: commitment.
We are Liverpudlians, not because we win trophies, but because we endure. Because we believe when belief is hard. Because we sing even when the world laughs at us. Titles are sweet, but they are the icing, not the cake. The real heart of Liverpool beats in the long, hard years when nothing comes easy.
I don’t expect Liverpool to win the league this year. I hope, of course. Always. But my hope is grounded, and disciplined. I know that building something lasting takes time. I know that setbacks will come, and that disappointment is part of the deal. I welcome it. It means the journey is real.
For the younger generation, used to the rapid-fire world of social media and instant gratification, this patience may seem alien. Why wait? Why accept struggle when glory seems so tantalisingly close?
But if football teaches anything — if life teaches anything — it is that the greatest joys are those hard-earned through loyalty, through stubbornness, through love that asks for nothing in return.
When we sang “You’ll Never Walk Alone” during the darkest seasons — during the humiliations at Old Trafford, the collapses at Selhurst Park, the long, empty winters — we weren’t promising success. We were promising to stand together no matter what. That is the promise we renew now.
I will watch this last few games this season — including this evening at Anfield where we are hosting Tottenham Hotspurs — not with the giddy hope of a new convert, but with the proud, steady heart of someone who has seen the worst and stayed true. I will cheer every tackle, every goal, every small step forward. I will grieve the defeats, but I will not rage against them. They are part of the story, part of what makes victory — when it comes — so profound.
And if, against all odds, Liverpool rise again to claim the title — if a new team under new leadership finds a way to scale the heights once more — I will celebrate. Of course I will. But it will be a celebration rooted in memory, in struggle, in a love that survived the long night.
We are Liverpudlians. We know darkness. We know false dawns. We know how to dream carefully, love fiercely, and endure always.
We do not demand miracles. We do not expect easy roads. We walk — through the storm, through the rain — with heads held high: we dreams in silence, silentium est aureum. Because that is what it means to never walk alone.
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