Cruising along with agitation, I hiked through the extensive crowds that buzzed the famous streets of this iconic city.
Striding tall and dignified in lustrous red and white, I heard the intense, spine-tingling roar of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ sung in sync by thousands of loyal fans. The glorious modern stadium towered over the tiny houses crouching beneath, in their dismal, poverty-stricken corners of Anfield.
Various sellers, convinced they were giving me a bargain, roared with confidence that their merchandise was the cheapest. They lined the packed, skinny streets that had been closed by the authorities for the game.
Ravaging through my pockets for the season ticket that had been passed down to me through generations of our family, I approached the turnstiles and stumbled through the overpowering, acidic stench of overpriced alcohol and sizzling burgers into further congestion.
I pounded up the elevated staircase and stepped into a vivid light that almost blinded me, crammed myself into my seat and sat, amazed by the magical atmosphere, beginning my adventure.