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In the dug-out, on the bench. The Anfield bench. Bill was nervous. And on the pitch, the Anfield pitch. The players of Liverpool Football Club were nervous. And in the stands, the Anfield stands. The forty-nine thousand and thirty-six supporters of Liverpool Football Club were nervous, too. Twice now, Byrne had had to clear off the Liverpool goal line. Time and again, Byrne’s tackles, Byrne’s interceptions, had kept Liverpool Football Club in the FA Cup. And now with nine minutes to go, with a hush across the ground, the Anfield ground, it was Byrne again, Gerry Byrne again who intercepted another West Ham ball, Byrne again who passed to Gordon Milne, so Milne could send Willie Stevenson away, away over the halfway line, over the halfway line and on to Jimmy Melia, Melia who then passed to Roger Hunt, Hunt still well to the left of the West Ham goal. But this time, and only this time, there was no challenge, no West Ham challenge. And as their keeper came, as Standen came, Hunt screwed the ball, the ball round Standen from an incredible angle, an incredible angle and into the back of the net. We’re going to win the Cup. At last, at last. The ball in the back of the West Ham net and Liverpool Football Club in the hat. We’re going to win the Cup. At last, at last. In the hat for the draw for the semi-finals of the FA Cup –

Ee-aye-addio, we’re going to win the Cup!

In the dug-out, on the bench. The Anfield bench. Bill was furious. The players of Liverpool Football Club had been outplayed, the players of Liverpool Football Club had been outclassed. And the fifty-four thousand four hundred and sixty-three supporters of Liverpool Football Club had been silenced. Liverpool Football Club were losing two — nil to Tottenham Hotspur. At home, at Anfield. In the dug-out, on the bench. Bill stood up. Bill walked down the touchline. Bill walked down the tunnel. Bill walked into the dressing room. Bill left the dressing-room door open. Bill looked around the dressing room. Bill pointed out of the dressing-room door. Bill pointed out into the corridor. And Bill said, Do you hear that sound? That is the sound of laughter. Laughter from the Tottenham dressing room. Because they are laughing at you, they are laughing at Liverpool Football Club. They are thinking the job is done, they are thinking they have beaten Liverpool Football Club. That you have given up, that Liverpool Football Club have submitted. Given up and bloody submitted –

Bill turned back to the dressing-room door. Bill slammed the dressing-room door shut. Bill looked back around the dressing room again. Bill pointed at each player of Liverpool Football Club. And Bill said, Well, let me tell you. Each and every one of you. I despise the word submission, I loathe the word submission. It should be cut out of the dictionary. It should be struck from the language. It should be banished. It should be forgotten. Because I won’t have it. I refuse to have it! Not here at Anfield. Not at Liverpool Football Club!

In the dug-out, on the bench. Bill did not look at his watch. Bill just waited for the moment to come. The moment Bill knew would come. The moment when Stevenson scored, the moment when Melia equalised, the moment when St John scored, the moment when Lewis scored and the moment when Melia scored again. His second goal, their fifth goal. And Liverpool Football Club had come from two goals down at half-time to beat Tottenham Hotspur five — two at full time.

In the dug-out, on the bench at White Hart Lane. Three days later, just three days later. Again. Bill did not look at his watch. Again. Bill waited for the moment to come. But this time the moment did not come. Again. Tottenham Hotspur scored first. Again. Liverpool Football Club equalised. But then Tottenham scored. Again. Tottenham scored. Again. Tottenham scored. And then Liverpool scored. But again. Tottenham scored. And again. And again. And Tottenham Hotspur beat Liverpool Football Club seven — two.

In the house, in their front room. In the night and in the silence. In his chair. Bill stared down at his book. His book of names, his book of notes. Bill turned the pages of the book. The pages of names, the pages of notes. Tottenham Hotspur had taught Liverpool Football Club a lesson. In the night and in the silence. In his chair. Bill kept turning the pages. The pages of names, the pages of notes. Three days later, Nottingham Forest had taught them another lesson. Nottingham Forest had beaten them two — nil. At home, at Anfield. Byrne had been injured, Byrne had not played. Moran had been injured, Moran had not played. Backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards. Two days after that lesson, Liverpool Football Club had drawn nil — nil with Fulham Football Club. Away from home, away from Anfield. Byrne had been injured, Byrne had not played. Moran had been injured, Moran had not played. Yeats had been injured, Yeats had not played. Callaghan had been injured, Callaghan had not played. In the night and in the silence. In his chair. Bill stopped turning the pages. The pages of names, the pages of notes. Bill rubbed his eyes. And Bill closed his book. His book of names, his book of notes. In the night and in the silence. In his chair. Bill stood up. Bill walked back into the kitchen. In the night and in the silence. Bill sat back down at the table, in the chair. The bowls and the plates, the salt and pepper pots, the jars of honey and marmalade around the edges of the cloth, at the sides of the table. In the night and in the silence. At the table, in the chair. Bill stared back down at the three spoons on the cloth. Banks, Norman, Sjöberg. Bill stared at the three forks. McLintock, King, Appleton. Bill stared at the four knives. Riley, Cross, Gibson, Stringfellow. And Bill stared at the last fork. Keyworth. And again the three spoons, the four forks and the four knives began to move. They began to turn. Again the three spoons, the four forks and the four knives would not stop moving. They would not stop turning. Moving and turning, spinning and swirling. Spinning and swirling, swirling and swirling. Never pausing, never stopping. Swirling and swirling. In the night and in the silence. At the table, in the chair. Bill rubbed his eyes. Swirling and swirling. In the night and in the silence. At the table, in the chair. Bill closed his eyes. Swirling and swirling. And in the night and in the silence. At the table, in the chair. Bill said his prayers. Five prayers for five players. One for Gerry Byrne. One for Ronnie Moran. One for Ron Yeats. One for Ian Callaghan and one for Jimmy Melia. And then in the night and in the silence. At the table, in the chair. Bill said one last prayer –

A prayer against a curse.