Hillsborough

She touched the little box in her pocket and smiled. It was enough – a bit of soil in the bottom compartment, an etching of his name from the memorial outside the stadium in the top. As the final notes of Gerry and the Pacemakers’ “You’ll Never Walk Alone” faded into the silent sunshine that blanketed the Hillsborough football ground – they don’t call it a soccer field here, she reminded herself – Jennifer felt like she could breathe for the first time in years.

For several moments there was no sound, no movement. Finally, as if only belatedly realizing that the memorial ceremony had ended, the attendees turned and walked to the west end of the grounds. Jennifer followed, letting the sea of red and grey clad Liverpool supporters lead her to where the Leppings Lane standing terraces had stood in 1989. He had been here, the father she had never known. When her mother had finally told her the story, she said through tears that the only time he had been more excited than he was that day was when she had told him she was pregnant.

But her father realized neither source of joy. For on April 15, 1989, five months before Jennifer was born, he died on this very spot, only minutes into the FA Cup semifinal match between his beloved Liverpool and Nottingham Forest. The police had let too many supporters into the stadium, causing a human crush. When the barrier at the bottom of the terraces broke and fans began tumbling onto the field, other fans tore down advertising signs to use as stretchers for the injured. But by then it was too late. Her father and ninety five others had died and seven hundred sixty six of his fellows had been injured.

Jennifer wiped tears from her eyes once again and studied the faces in the crowd, searching for someone who perhaps looked like her. She wondered if her grandparents were here, or any members of her fathers’ family. They hadn’t been happy about Mom moving back to the States after it happened. But she was determined that Jennifer would be American and, anyway, she needed to go home to restart her life. So Jennifer was born and raised in middle America. Mom’s story – when she finally told Jennifer about her Dad on her twenty-first birthday – was that her father’s family was stubborn and unforgiving and after one or two brief visits when Jennifer was an infant, they lost touch.

So here Jennifer stood, three and a half years later, having told no one she was going to attend the twenty five year anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster. Her Mom thought she was visiting a friend who had been sworn to silence. And her father’s family hadn’t seen her in twenty four years. But she had an email address and a phone number for her Dad’s brother – her uncle - and a ticket on the next train from Sheffield to Liverpool. She was tired of walking alone.