And as the crowd sang, the loss faded, the scoreline forgotten. 3-1 down. 3-1 down at the death of the game. We were beat. We had lost and we were going out of the fa cup. Yet at 3-1 down, the crowd sang at a volume i would swear i had never heard before. They had sung louder and louder to celebrate faith in the Kop. And as Steve Finnan kicked the ball into the sidelines with some good defending, the crowd never stopped singing, or cheering. The view at Anfield that night was a solemn affair. We might have gone out 3-1 losers. But we had gone out with not only pride and grace, but as a unit. Anfield was more one than ever that day and i bet you could picture it. Picture the fact that at 3-1 down, you'd sing your clubs theme in unison louder than any group of mancunians that day or any array of honking cars in traffic or the blabber of our trouble and strifes combined. You could very well picture it. I could.

The truth is I have never been to Anfield or been a step near it. I have never been close enough to smell the air at Melwood or know what its like to be in the stands. I've never been to abbey road and really, i have never sung the song out loud. I do not know the scenes where we last won our title some twenty years back and i had never sat a full game to see how Toshack, Dalglish or Rush ruled the game while we were still king. I had come in to support Liverpool FC at a time when Steve Mcmanaman was coming up the ranks, When Karl Heinze Riedle would bag the goals and Fowler would do a special or Berger bring the net down. Yes those were the times that i could recall as a liverpool fan. In front of the television screen. I know nuts about its culture to say the least. I don't know who died and i never saw Crazy Horse play. But i know something, that in my heart, that day, or most days, Anfield was home. Anfield still is.

Owen had come in on his debut against Wimbledon in our colors of yellow then. He would go on to score aplenty, become a Kop favourite and leave us for the Santiago Bernabeu. But a new number ten came along and he brought with him a spanish flavor one would fine hard to forget. Sanz Luis Garcia. A cheeky maestro, The midget of a spaniard would breeze through defender after defender with the cheekiest of flicks and death touches to send the crowd cheering after a jubilant finish. Sure he'd make a few mistakes and give us pain and hair pulling experiences, but this little spaniard would also send us through to the finals of the champions league, bagging goals against Juventus and Chelsea. He would prove his point again, making sure the ball had gone past the line this time in a repeat game against the Blues. The hair band and thumb sucking celebrations would be marred by injury that took him out for the whole season. We finished with a respectable third placed position and much was unsure for any Liverpool player with the opening of the transfer window. And yes, Garcia leaves Anfield with Fernando Torres coming in.

You would think that i would be thrilled by such a capture, that for once a club like ours would have a big time signing and yes, you bet i was. Who fucking wouldn't ? But let us choose to keep inside of us, Our little Spaniard for he had come from Barca, to give us joy.

To the future at Anfield, cheers to the arrivals of Lucas Leiva, Yossi Benayoun, Fernando Torres and the impending arrival of Ryan Babel and that maybe one day, i would be amongst the stands with all the scousers at the merseyside derby of my life and tell the fucking Toffees to lay the fuck off. And i'd probably get beat, i'd probably get beat to a pulp, heck i might ascend to the gates of st Peter but you know what, i'd ascend as a scouser. To say the least, i would have been there.

To the devils at trafford, the mancunians at emirates, the blues at stamford and with so much love, the fucking toffees at fucking goodison park, let the fucking bloodshed begin for this is more than a two horsed race. This is the fucking EPL.