It’s said that you should never meet your heroes, but 36 years after the Liverpool manager sat by my hospital bed, I got to thank our greatest ally Born to a son of Anfield in a Warwickshire village, I grew up geographically remote from my spiritual football home. Emotionally, though, the pull of the boys in red was ever-present: from my first game at Anfield in 1974 to FA Cup final defeat at Wembley in ’77, to witnessing the first of Liverpool’s six European Cups, in Rome, when my first hero, Kevin Keegan, ran Berti Vogts ragged. I cried when Keegan left, but soon a new king was born in my imagination: Kenny Dalglish, that wily, tough, insanely skilful Scot. I travelled the country to follow my team through the peaks and troughs that culminated in the lowest possible low, on 15 April 1989, the day of the FA Cup semi-final between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest. There are many things I remember about Hillsborough, some of which returned to me years, even decades, later. My dad saying: “If it’s a nice day tomorrow, we’ll go.” Ian St John on the end of my hospital bed. My best mate laughing as I struggled to eat a yoghurt. The endless bright white lights of the Royal Hallamshire. The surreal trip to my local hospital in an ancient, drafty ambulance. One thing I don’t remember, though, is meeting my hero. And for good reason. For I’m the “miracle” boy woken by the sound of Kenny’s voice when he spoke at my bedside. Continue reading...