For many years, scientists and anthropologists have pondered the curious phenomenon of home advantage. Why would athletes, paid huge sums of money to win matches, try harder just because a group of strangers are shouting for them? Why would that make a blind bit of difference? Yesterday, at Anfield, we got our answer.
It started early. As the players arrived at the ground on their team bus, they were surrounded by believers. Flags were waved, songs sung, and a sense of possibility filled the air. It was more than an hour before kick-off, but the players were already confronted by a heady set of emotions. Brendan Rodgers, in his pre-match interview, said: Money cant buy what we just felt on the way here. It was about history and passion for our city and our football club.
By the time they arrived in the stadium, Anfield had reached a fever pitch. The proximity of the title, the chance of ending 24 years of pain, explained some of the emotion. But it was about more than that. As the crowd sang Youll Never Walk Alone, the stadium underwent a metamorphosis. It affected everyone: players, managers, referee, perhaps even the millions of TV viewers around the world. Anfield became a cathedral.
I remember once going to Methodist Central Hall to listen to Mozarts Requiem. I am not a religious person, but as the music soared, I became a temporary believer. The experience is not uncommon, apparently, even amongst atheists.
Neuroscientists have noted that the electrochemistry of the brain undergoes a shift when a person is surrounded by a fervent crowd. This hints at the power of stadium evangelism of the kind made famous by Billy Graham. Belief can sometimes be contagious. Yesterday, Liverpool fans made believers of their team. It is often said that the Kop is a twelfth man, but for long sections of a breathless opening, they seemed to be out there on the pitch. Not physically, but in a spiritual way.
The players were feeding off the emotion, finding inspiration in it, hitting passes and trusting the willl of the fans to bend the ball into its optimum path. When Raheem Sterling scored the first I wondered if the stadium announcer would credit the goal to the Kop.
Hillsborough provided the backdrop and context. In the moments before kick-off,, there was a minutes silence, impeccably observed, Joe Corrigan and Mike Summerbee presented a floral tribute: 96 red and blue roses, accepted on behalf of Liverpool FC by Kenny Dalglish and Ian Rush.
A few miles away, a second inquest into the tragedy is unfolding, providing new insights into the lives of those who died, and the ordeal their families have endured. Hillsborough is a living part of Liverpools history. Football is often described as a secular religion, sometimes in a mocking way, but it is an idea that contains many deep truths. Generally it is applied to the fans: their devotion, the liturgy of match day, the cognitive dissonance of always believing that ones team is the greatest in the world, despite the evidence to the contrary.
There is also the aspect of shared experiences, of massed chanting, and of messianic figures (often managers), who will rescue the club and point the way to a new kind of truth. And yet, to my mind, the metaphor is too rarely applied to players. We are often told that the modern breed of player is footloose, unattached, willing to go wherever the cash is. They are agnostics, unaffected by the history and traditions of the clubs they represent, and who kiss the badge, not because they mean it, but for show.
For many players this is doubtless true. Fans are believers while players are mercenaries. The great managers, however, attempt to subvert this idea. They do not merely pay their players; they also seek to evangelise them. They emphasise the history of the club, its meaning in hearts and minds. They recognise that when a player is there in spirit, he is likely to find deeper wells of inspiration. This was a central plank of Sir Alex Fergusons philosophy. Nobody plays for United without understanding what this club means: its history and traditions, he said.
Brendan Rodgers has harnessed this idea at Liverpool, too. In his first week in charge, he saw the iconic This is Anfield sign that Bill Shankly had placed in the players tunnel. When he asked why it was not there any more, he was told that it had been replaced by a new one. He insisted that the original be put back. He also ordered the reintroduction of red nets in the goals, another Anfield tradition. Above all, he has emphasised the role of fans in contributing to the clubs self-belief. They are our greatest asset, he said.
Such intangibles are, of course, no guarantee of success. Football is about conventional things, too: tactics, preparation, high quality players. But, at the margins, intangibles can be crucial. The phenomenon of home advantage speaks eloquently to the power of fans. Theytransmit belief and create a fortress mentality (studies have shown that testosterone levels are higher for home players something anthropologists have linked to the tribal instinct).
Evidence also suggests that a vocal crowd can influence the referee. In his post-match interview, Rodgers paid tribute to Manchester City. He noted the resilience of the team in blue and acknowledged that they had come within an ace of putting the game beyond Liverpools reach. Indeed, there were periods in the second half when City were mesmerising, particularly when David Silva was orchestrating the play.
The match provided another peerless advert for the Premier League. But many will remember yesterdays match, not just for the brilliance of the play, but for the unique atmosphere created by those within Anfield. They yearned for victory even as they mourned 96 of their comrades , lost almost exactly 25 years ago. As Rodgers put it: It was a wonderful atmosphere. On TV it probably sounded loud, but at pitchside, it was just incredible.